


Transition

by fennishjournal (Shimi)



Series: Rites of Passage [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Bisexual Character, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, Cheating, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, John-centric, Lestrade-centric, Love, M/M, Male Friendship, OT3, POV Sherlock Holmes, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Polyfidelity, Post Reichenbach, Unconventional Relationship, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-30
Updated: 2012-08-07
Packaged: 2017-11-11 02:26:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 51,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/473454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shimi/pseuds/fennishjournal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes back but that doesn't make everything OK. At least not all at once.</p><p>This tells the story of how Sherlock, John and Lestrade try to find a polyamorous set-up that works for them. Sherlock being Sherlock that is....not easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Common as light

**Author's Note:**

> ATTENTION:  
> Due to a mistake, the first four chapters of this story were deleted and with it all your comments and kudos. If you would care to leave them again, that would be lovely. *goes off to bang head against wall*
> 
>  
> 
> Beta Note:
> 
> A world of thanks is due to lostgirlslair who made sure the emotional trajectories of all four relationships made sense and Sherlock got his fair share of attention and to pennypaperbrain who heroically speed-betaed in a pinch and pointed out important fits and starts in the story-telling. Finally, drinkingcocoa was instrumental in figuring out the Sherlock/Lestrade part of this story. 
> 
> You are all absolutely brilliant! 
> 
> All remaining mistakes are my own.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“It has been a long time since anyone has wanted to protect me.” Greg hears himself say into the warm silence between them._

They're standing in Greg's hallway, John crowding him against the wall, covering him like a blanket. A very tense, very angry blanket.

 

“No one gets to hurt you,” John murmurs against his skin, his breath tickling Greg's neck, his fingers on Greg's hips tight enough to bruise. “No one. I will kill them, I will hurt them, I will....” John sounds fierce and dangerous, his body taut with fury, and Greg can feel a cold shiver running down his back.

 

He tightens his arms around John, feeling the defined lines of John's muscles moving under his palms, and tries to break into whatever revengeful headspace John is currently inhabiting.  “Hey, hey, it's OK. They didn't actually hurt me, you realise that, yeah?”

 

John stills against him and stops his frantic and frankly disconcerting muttering, so Greg continues. “Besides, I've been doing this job for a while. I can take care of myself.”

 

At that John pulls back from him and gives him a disbelieving glare that says loudly and clearly that that is very much up for debate. “They had you on your knees with a gun to your neck. They were going to fucking _execute_ you!” John bites back, his voice rising angrily on the last two words. Greg winces.

 

“If I hadn't shown up in time – ” John continues, obviously gearing up for a rant, but Greg is going to stop him right there. It's useless and unhealthy to think too much about might-have-beens in his line of work.

 

“But you _did_. You showed up at the crucial moment, charging in with your illegal gun like the scariest guardian angel I've ever seen.” He's trying for levity here and it seems to be working because John's face is slowly returning to a more healthy colour, and he has stopped glaring quite so ferociously.

 

John gives a snort of laughter that hit softly against Greg's face softly and shakes his head. “Yeah, I don't think ‘guardian angel for bull-headed detective inspectors’ is anywhere in my job description.”

 

“Does that make me special?” Greg can't help but tease, opening his eyes in an exaggerated show of surprise.

 

John rolls his eyes at the cliché but he is smiling again and he has loosened his painful grip on Greg's hipbones. Instead John's thumbs have started circling on Greg's skin where they are pushed up under his shirt, their touch light and seemingly unconscious as John regards him with amused affection.

 

“You know you are, you stupid git. That's why I'm still around.”

 

Then John leans forward to kiss him, the press of his mouth forceful and possessive against Greg's. He pulls back after a moment and Greg can see his expression slowly changing into one of desire, though there is still a trace of anger left around his eyes.

 

John tilts his head up again and this time his lips are soft and teasing, plucking at Greg's mouth, scattering quick pecks all along it. Greg closes his eyes and concentrates completely on kissing John back, opening his mouth ever so slightly, darting his tongue out to slick their lips against each other.

 

John breathes in sharply at that and tilts his head sideways, so that their open mouths can meet greedily, tongues sliding over each other. Greg shifts his hands up to the back of John's head, pulling him in even closer so that one of John's legs comes to rest between his own, providing delicious friction right where he needs it. He starts sucking lightly on the tip of John's tongue, coaxing a moan out of him.

 

John has his right hand braced against the wall, the other stroking up and down Greg's side under his shirt, but now he brings that hand up to scratch one blunt fingernail along the line of Greg's jaw. At the same time, John's hips execute a slow roll against him and Greg can feel the hot length of John's erection pressing against his thigh.

 

Greg's breath rushes into him with a surprised hiss at the sharp pleasure of the scratch and he can feel his own dick heavy and thick between his legs, where John's hipbone is pressed against his crotch.

 

He pulls John's head to the side roughly, so his mouth is right next to John's ear. “I think you should fuck me,” he whispers, his voice deep and a little breathy with arousal.

 

“Oh yeah?” John asks, “You think?” His hips are still working against Greg in short circular motions, almost involuntary. 

 

“Yes, I really, really do.” he affirms. “Do you want to?”

 

“ _God_ , yes.” John growls. He lowers his face into the crook of Greg's neck, his stubble scratchy against Greg's skin, and starts working on the sensitive flesh there with teeth and tongue. Greg knows he will have a spectacular hickey to cover up tomorrow, but right now the only thing he cares about are the sharp little spikes of pleasure that shoot through his body as John begins to suck viciously at that tender spot right where neck meets shoulder.

 

Greg can feel his nipples tightening, the friction of his shirt against them starting to feel obscenely good, and lets the hand that is not gripping the back of John's neck wander lower to squeeze his arse through the soft, worn denim of John's jeans.

 

John's mouth falters on Greg's neck at that and he looks up, pupils blown and face flushed pink, panting slightly. It's a sight Greg has become somewhat addicted to over the last year and he can feel a delighted grin splitting his own face. John Watson hot and bothered is both beautiful and one hell of a turn-on.

 

He raises both eyebrows at John and gestures with his chin. “Want to continue this in the bedroom?”

 

John grins back at him delightedly. “You bet your ass. Come on.” And he is tugging Greg behind him, leading him through the bedroom door.

 

Once inside he gives Greg a little push so that he comes to sit on the edge of the mattress. Greg starts to unbutton his shirt, his legs spread to give his dick some room. John, who is standing right in front of him, is undressing as well, pulling his t-shirt off over his head and then carefully dragging down the zip of his jeans over his erect dick.

 

Greg's own hands still at that, his attention held by the sight of John's cock tenting his pants. There is a bit of moisture darkening the black fabric right over the head and he suddenly finds himself leaning forward so he can press his mouth against it, his hands coming to rest on the waistband of John's trousers. John starts to pant as Greg gently rubs his tongue along the wet spot, tasting John, feeling the heat of his arousal even through the layer of cloth. John places his hands on Greg's head and begins to pet his hair, gently kneading his fingers against the scalp.

 

Greg hums in agreement and pulls John's pants down a little so that he can get his mouth around the top of John's dick. He sucks gently on the exposed head, working his tongue around the flare, playing lightly with the edge of John's foreskin.

 

He can feel John's stomach muscles tightening under his hands, John's breathing now harsh and quick. Greg's own dick is straining against the confines of his slacks, and he wants to reach down and squeeze himself but right now the taste of John on his tongue, the feeling of his lips sliding over the smooth skin of his glans, are taking up all his attention.

 

Finally it is John who stops him, probably because his legs have started to tremble, Greg notices with satisfaction. John is shoving him away from his crotch gently, hands on either side of Greg's head and then he bends down at what must be an uncomfortable angle to kiss Greg on the mouth. It is brief but forceful and then John steps back and hurriedly strips off the rest of his clothes. Greg does the same.

 

When he is naked he lies down on his side, one hand cupping his dick lightly, watching John tug off his socks. John looks at him and smiles when he is done, but before he crawls up onto the bed to join Greg he takes a quick step over to the bedside cabinet and takes out a condom and lube. He puts them down next to the pillow as he nestles down next to Greg, their chests pressed up against each other, their legs tangling, their cocks rubbing in a way that makes Greg moan out loud.

 

They lie there for a bit, rocking against each other slowly, kissing lazily, panting into each other's open mouths. Then Greg takes John's hand and pointedly places it on his backside. He likes having his arse played with and John knows it; Greg can feel him grinning against the edge of his mouth. John trails his fingers lightly over the curve of Greg's buttocks and then dips between them, running the pad of his index finger up and down from perineum to tailbone. Greg whimpers at the teasing sensation and hitches his leg up a little higher to give John better access.

 

Before he knows it, however, John has twisted out from under him and Greg finds himself on his stomach, John's hands and mouth suddenly hot on his behind. Greg moans as John tongues along his iliac crest right into the cleft of his cheeks, his hands kneading the muscles of Greg's arse rhythmically. John doesn't like rimming but he will sometimes indulge Greg this way, gently teasing the beginning of his crack with the pointed tip of his tongue. Greg can't help the way his hips undulate at the sensation of that hot, wet tongue tickling him. When John suddenly moves his mouth to his right arse-cheek and _bites down_ , he cries out in surprise and pleasure.

 

Greg has buried his fingers in the sheets and is rubbing his face back and forth against the mattress, trying to get enough air, trying to hide his face, trying to – suddenly John is gone from behind him.

 

“What the - ”

 

His eyes fly open and he looks over his shoulder to see John squirting a generous amount of lube on two fingers of his right hand. The look he gives Greg as he smears the gel around his fingers is both intent and predatory and, right, yes, Greg is very much on board with that development. He lowers his head again, resting it on his forearms, and then John's mouth is back on him, licking and nibbling, as John works two fingers into him. He starts out slow, sliding the very tips of his index and middle finger in and out, teasing the tense outer ring of muscle.

 

Greg concentrates on breathing deeply, on relaxing, enjoying the smooth glide of John's fingers into him, deeper with every stroke. Then John starts to widen his fingers slightly, stretching him bit by bit, and Greg moans into the hot space between his arms. John chuckles behind him and withdraws his fingers, causing Greg to whimper at the loss of sensation.

 

“God, you want it _bad_ , don't you? I could do this all day, take you apart with my hands. Watch you squirm.” John's voice is low and rough, making Greg feel hot all over.

 

“ _Yes_ ,” Greg hisses, “but I thought we had a – _oh_ – a plan here?” His voice breaks for a moment as John shoves back in with three fingers now, stretching him in a way that feels both intimate and debauched. He shivers and stops complaining, all his attention taken up by the way John's fingers are pushing into him, thick and slick and intrusive in a way that feels indescribably good. If Greg had enough brainpower left, he might have minded the helpless little sounds that are torn from him whenever John's fingers skim over his prostate, teasing and electrifying but _not enough...._

When John withdraws this time, Greg starts swearing viciously.

 

“God-fucking-dammit you bloody bastard, you'd better be preparing to fuck me right fucking _now_ or I swear to God I'll – ”

 

That's as far as he gets before John, still laughing quietly to himself, starts to tug Greg's hips up so that he ends up with his arse in the air, legs spread wide, his head still pillowed on his arms.

 

“Oh, I love it when you start swearing,” John pants as he gets himself into position between Greg's legs, the blunt head of his cock pressing against Greg's sensitised opening. “You sound so fucking desperate. And you are, aren't you? Desperate to have my dick inside you?”

 

John has a fondness for dirty talk and usually Greg doesn't mind, on the contrary, but right now he just wants to be fucked. John is driving him absolutely _crazy,_ teasing around and against his lube-slicked hole but not actually entering him.

 

“Would you get _on_ with it and fuck me? Bloody hell, what are you waiting for – ”

 

His frustrated tirade is cut-off abruptly as John starts to push in. He is going slowly but he isn't stopping, working his dick into Greg steadily, spreading him. Greg moans, eyes closing in satisfaction. It feels so _good_ and he can feel himself opening up, his legs sliding apart instinctively to try and get John deeper, right where he needs him.

 

John is gripping Greg's hips with both hands and once he bottoms out, his pubic hair scratchy against Greg's arse, he starts rocking shallowly, searching for the right kind of angle.

 

Greg feels like he is coming apart with John pressed into him so intimately, his internal muscles clenching and relaxing around the stiff length of John's dick, feeling open and wanton.

 

John is grunting rhythmically with every thrust of his hips, his breath hot and ragged against the skin of Greg's back. It's a sound that Greg loves and that makes him push back against John with each shove, their rhythm practised and perfect.

 

Then John shifts slightly, angling down so that he is gliding over Greg's prostate with every second stroke. He reaches around to grip Greg's prick in a sweat-slicked hand, just tightly enough that it feels utterly fantastic. Greg is moaning continuously now, his awareness fixed on the pulsating contractions that have started low in his gut. They are quickly spreading outwards through his entire body until he gives a hoarse shout, coming all over John's hand and his own stomach.

 

John pulls out gently and Greg collapses on his front, breath heaving, aftershocks still running through him. He can hear the quick, rhythmic noises of John stroking himself and a moment later there is a deep groan which he knows must be John coming his brains out.

 

There is some rustling and then John drapes himself over Greg's back, languorous with sudden relaxation, skin damp with sweat. His weight is dear and familiar and Greg loves feeling the twitching of John's muscles as his body slowly cools down. Soon, however, the wet spot he is lying in becomes disagreeable and they shift around a little more.

 

Once they have each found an area of the sheet that's dry and comfortable, they settle on their sides, facing each other. Greg reaches out a hand, curling his fingers around John's and John smiles at him sweetly, in a way that Greg would never have thought possible twelve months ago. He smiles back fondly, tracing a finger over the lines of John's palm. They love each other and that is still surprising and precious to both of them.

 

“It has been a long time since anyone has wanted to protect me.” Greg hears himself say into the warm silence between them.

 

And, well, it's true. He is used to being the person who tries his best to keep others out of harm's way, who interjects himself between the world and those he feels responsible for. It should make him feel weak, emasculated maybe, to suddenly find himself on the other side of the equation. It doesn't. Maybe because at the same time nothing in John's behaviour has changed at all. He doesn't suddenly treat Greg like he is fragile or defenceless. He still exudes the same air of comrades-in-arms that Greg found so compelling in the first place. They are equals and yet they both feel the need to be devastatingly tender with each other. It moves him deeply in ways he cannot fully articulate.

 

“Yes, I know.” John answers.

 

And Greg knows that this is true as well, that John is as unused to this as he is. That part of what makes this so intense, part of what cuts both of them wide open when they are with one another, is that for the first time in years they don't just feel safe in the manner of men who know they can look after themselves. They feel sheltered. Taken care of. Cherished.

 

He doesn't say any of this, doesn't need to say any of it. John's face mirrors his own amazement and heart-stopping vulnerability. His own joy at the fact that maybe here he has found somebody he can feel safe with, at the same time as retaining his own ability to protect and care in return.

They lie there like this for a long time, just looking at each other, hands intertwined, almost breathless. It feels like the beginning of something new and like the painful knitting of torn skin at the same time, and it is marvellous and terrifying in equal measures.


	2. The twined thread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock returns.

It's Friday evening, three years and two months after Sherlock Holmes died, when John steps into the living room at 221B with his shopping and loses his mind.

John is a doctor and he used to be a doctor in a war zone, so he knows just how upsettingly common it is for people to hallucinate that they are seeing their dead friends. He also knows that the normal time for this to happen are the first months after the bereavement. Seeing your best friend stretched out on your living room couch three years after he died, sporting a new scar at his left temple and with his hair dyed a frankly ridiculous shade of ginger, is a very bad sign.

The shopping bag and umbrella drop to the floor as John instinctively brings shaking hands up to cover his mouth and he closes his eyes for a moment to see if that will make the hallucination go away. When he opens them again, Sherlock Holmes is still asleep on his sofa.

John makes an involuntary whimpering sound, his thoughts racing through the list of psychiatric clinics he knows and would be willing to spend what is obviously a psychotic break in – when the figure on the sofa suddenly moves and sits up.

Sherlock looks at John, face vague with sleep and surprise at first and then a smile breaks over his features. It's so open and innocently bright that John starts to tremble all over. He has never seen Sherlock smile like this, ever, when he was still alive, and for reasons he can't quite name, this suddenly makes him utterly certain that this is no neurological or psychiatric phenomenon – this is _real_.

“John!” Sherlock says, and his tone implies that his painfully ordinary first name is the most wonderful and luminous word in the English language.

John can't move, can't speak, more shocked than he has ever been in his life. He has to lean against the wall because his legs are threatening to give out.

Sherlock gets up and comes over to him, pulling John into a tight full-body hug. He feels bony but solid against John, and John can smell cigarette smoke and rain on his coat. It's the same coat Sherlock wore when he stepped off that damned roof, its wool scratchy and wonderfully familiar against John's cheek. It is so bizarre, so outside anything John has ever thought possible, that he has to bring up his hands and push them inside the coat and up under Sherlock's jumper _(since when does Sherlock wear jumpers?)_. His hands wander over the hard edges of Sherlock's body, skimming the ribs he has bandaged more than once. He can even feel the small bump where Sherlock's collar bone had healed not-quite-smoothly because the stupid bastard couldn't be arsed to keep his arm in a sling for more than a day. This is undeniably Sherlock himself, alive and breathing in his arms, and suddenly there is a ringing in John's ears that he hasn't heard in years.

“Oh God, you're real. You're really here!” he hears himself say as if from far away and then the darkness rushes in and John faints. It is something that used to happen with annoying regularity when he was a child and Harry had always teased him about it mercilessly. However, John hasn't fainted since puberty – lucky him, they don't exactly take you in the army if you have a tendency to keel over when stressed – so he's a little disoriented when he comes to in the recovery position on what is definitely not his parents' living room floor.

Then a pair of expensive but scuffed leather shoes come into view and a moment later Sherlock kneels down next to him. He gently shifts John so that he is lying on his back, staring up at Sherlock's worried face.

“John? John, can you hear me?”

He shakes his head a little to clear it and realises that he does have a voice after all.

“Yeah, I'm alright. Just the shock,” he croaks out, “Used to happen all the time when I was a kid.” His voice sounds thick in his ears as if he had just taken a really deep nap but Sherlock's face relaxes a little at hearing it and he leans forwards to feel John's pulse. Whatever he feels seems to reassure him further.

Sherlock sits back on his heels and smiles a little ruefully. “I'm sorry, John, I had no idea it would hit you this hard.”

John stares at him incredulously and can't help but splutter. “What, you didn't think it would be a bit of a shock to find out you aren't _dead_?” He can already feel anger starting to simmer somewhere in the background but right now surprise and curiosity are overwhelming anything else.

Sherlock winces and shakes his head. “No, no, of course not. I guess this sort of situation is hard to predict.”

John can't help the half-fond, half-sarcastic snort Sherlock's more ridiculous stunts have always drawn from him. “You can say that again.” He takes a deep breath, noticing that the world has finally stopped spinning. “Right, help me up and then you are going to pour each of us a good stiff brandy. And then you're going to tell me _what the fuck_ has been going on during the last three years.”

They sit down like they used to, each in their customary armchair, and then Sherlock talks until the room has gone completely dark and they should turn on the lights but don't. John can feel the alcohol settling warmly in the pit of his stomach and feels himself relax incrementally as the gaunt and worn man in front of him spins out a completely insane tale about Moriarty's enormous operation and the three snipers aimed at Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and himself. The idea of Sherlock travelling the world like a character out of a John le Carré novel, taking his enemies out one by one, is almost too absurd to be believable.

 

Sherlock finally winds down and John has to shake his head to clear away the feeling of having had his entire life reordered. He laughs a little because really, this is completely mental but on the other hand, this is the man who has _arch-enemies_ – and then he looks at Sherlock. Sherlock, who is sitting here, in his armchair, alive and talking. He suddenly feels himself break into a ridiculously broad smile and says: “You're completely bonkers and I love you. You know that, right?”

Sherlock stops in mid-sentence and his face becomes strangely soft and endearingly young, his grey eyes turning dark. He doesn't say anything for a moment and then he abruptly gets up and comes over to kneel at John's feet.

John looks down at him with a fondness that aches a little, it is so raw, and then Sherlock leans forward and kisses John right on the mouth, tentative and soft as if unsure of his welcome. John is stunned for a moment and then he takes Sherlock's head in both hands and kisses him back fiercely, saying _Yes, yes, yes_ to Sherlock's unspoken question without ever uttering a word. He strokes his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, pulling him in tight, wanting to be closer. Sherlock opens up for him willingly and is making little needy noises against his lips.

Then Sherlock breaks away from him a little and starts to rub his cheek against John's, frantically whispering “I missed you, I missed you, missed you so much....”, until John shuts him up with another deep kiss. They make out like this in the darkness for long minutes, frantic with need and joy and a love so fierce it borders on pain.

Finally, John shoves Sherlock away from him and gets up. Sherlock is looking up at him, hair mussed, lips red and swollen from kissing, and John trails his fingers over Sherlock's cheek before dropping them to his shirt collar and tugging.

“Come on, upstairs.” he says.

At John's words, Sherlock's eyes flutter shut for a moment and then he scrambles to his feet so fast he almost loses his balance.

They never let go of each other completely as they make their way up the stairs, kissing and biting and licking; John pulling Sherlock's shirt-tails out of his trousers, Sherlock unbuttoning John's fly. By the time they reach John's bedroom both of them are already half-naked and more than half-hard. Once they stumble through the bedroom door they reluctantly let go of each other to hastily pull off the rest of their clothes, desperate for the feeling of skin on skin.

When he is naked, Sherlock takes a step forward and presses himself against John from head to toe, burying his nose in John's hair, his rapid breaths hot against John's skin. John's face is pressed into Sherlock's shoulder and he darts out his tongue to taste Sherlock's skin just above his collar bone; it tastes salty and a little sharp with sweat. The glide of his tongue over the smooth texture of Sherlock's skin is intoxicating and he bites down gently just on the ridge of the bone.

They are both panting and flushed and John can feel Sherlock's fingers trail over the skin of his back and settle on the curve of his arse. When Sherlock gives his buttocks a firm squeeze John groans and presses even closer. He has always liked having his arse grabbed and he can feel Sherlock's erection against his stomach and _God_ , but he is turned on.

John places his right hand on Sherlock's hip and the left on his neck, drawing him in tight as he shoves his hips forward to create more of that hot, rough friction between them. Sherlock starts making little gasping noises at that, thrusting against John's belly in turn, and nips at John's earlobe, causing shivers to run down John's spine.

John grabs a handful of Sherlock's hair and uses it to pull Sherlock's head back so that he can go back to kissing him and Sherlock opens his mouth wide. Their tongues are gliding over each other, almost but not quite battling for dominance, and it feels glorious and just right.

Sherlock shifts so that their dicks slide against each other with each thrust and John moans out load at the sweet drag of his cockhead against Sherlock's prick. John's heart is racing and he thinks he has never been this aroused in his life, his body high on adrenaline and joy.

Then Sherlock starts walking him backwards and soon they are collapsed on John's bed, John on his back, Sherlock sitting astride him. His eyes wander over John's body in a way that would feel uncomfortable with anybody else but that right here and right now just makes John feel _seen_.

Finally, Sherlock leans forward and starts pressing tiny, open mouthed kisses to every inch of John's skin. He starts at John's left wrist and works his way down the arm, making John shudder and moan as he gently lips the sensitive flesh in the crook of John's elbow. He kisses his way down John's torso, his mouth skimming over John's left nipple, his bottom lip catching on the sensitive tip of it.

John's nipples have always been absurdly sensitive for a bloke and Sherlock spends some time there sucking and biting, each scratch of his teeth shooting straight down to John's balls. When he has succeeded in making John gasp and writhe against the sheets in a way that would make him blush if his face wasn't already bright red, he lets go abruptly and continues to kiss his way across John's chest. As he gets to John's right hand, he presses his lips to each individual finger and then pushes his tongue between John's index and middle finger, playing with the tiny web of skin where they are joined.

By now John is feeling as if every nerve cell in his body is lighting up and the gentle caress of Sherlock's tongue between his fingers feels almost too good. And then Sherlock takes one of John's fingers into his mouth and starts to suck on it with hollowed cheeks and John has to close his eyes and hold his breath for a moment to regain at least some semblance of control. He is so aroused he can hardly bear it.

But whenever he tries to take a more active part in the proceedings, Sherlock firmly but gently presses him back against the sheets, and then inevitably returns to caressing every inch of John's skin with his mouth.

John holds his breath for a moment as Sherlock reaches the scar on his shoulder but Sherlock doesn't hesitate for a even second: His lips move over the star-shaped raise of knotted skin and then he bites down on it gently, the sensation breaking through the relative numbness of the scar tissue. John can suddenly feel tears prickling behind his closed eyelids but Sherlock has already moved on, down to John's other nipple and soon the damnable vulnerability he always feels when somebody examines his scar fades into the background as he concentrates on the rasp of Sherlock's stubble over the sensitised flesh of his nipple.

As Sherlock works his way down John's abdomen, John can feel his own breathing grow fast and shallow, his cock twitching against his belly as Sherlock's gusts of breath come closer and closer to the sensitive head. But Sherlock avoids John's dick entirely, instead spending interminable seconds mouthing along the crease of his groin, his mouth so close to John's balls he could scream in frustration.

Sherlock has two hands on John's hip, pressing him firmly to the bed and he has clearly no intention of letting John hurry him along. John finally gives in and simply lies back, hands fisted in the sheets, Sherlock's caresses painting bright points of pleasure and heat on his skin as Sherlock works his way down first one and then the other of John's leg. John feels loved, feels _adored_ in every single cell of his body and it's the most sensuous and patient sex, no, _lovemaking_ , he has ever experienced.

When Sherlock has worked his way back up to John's crotch for the second time, however, John's patience finally gives out and he can't help the eager whine escaping from his throat at feeling that talented tongue so close to where he wants it, needs it so badly.

He can feel Sherlock smile against his skin and then John's eyes fly open as Sherlock starts to gently lick his balls. He digs his fingers in the mattress, feeling the need to anchor himself somehow, and spreads his legs wider. Sherlock starts working his way up John's cock, licking in long, broad stripes and John is panting in earnest now. When Sherlock's hot mouth closes around the head of his dick and he starts playing his tongue across his slit John actually shouts. He flings one hand out and manages to snag a pillow he can stuff under his head because he'll be damned if he misses the sight of Sherlock going down on him.

Sherlock's head between his thighs, the blissful way in which he has his eyes closed and is now sucking on John's cock with visible enjoyment, is almost better than the feeling of that wonderful hot, wet, tight suction around his dick – almost. Sherlock has moved one of his hands up and is gripping the base of John's cock just tight enough to feel good, while his other hand is busy gently fondling John's balls.

Under the circumstances, it is a little disappointing but no surprise at all that when John lasts all of two minutes before he comes, rearing upwards with the force of it, spurting down Sherlock's throat.

As he lies there, slightly diminishing waves of pleasure still washing through him, Sherlock crawls up his body and starts kissing John. He still tastes of John's dick which is amazingly hot, and he is rutting frantically against John's hip.

As soon as John has recovered enough muscle control to move his hand he reaches down and grips Sherlock's cock in his fist, making a tight tunnel for him to thrust into. Sherlock breaks their kiss, his hips jerking forward in earnest now, his head hanging low between his shoulders as he pants open-mouthed. Soon John can feel him twitch against his palm and Sherlock opens his eyes wide, staring intently at John as his own orgasm shakes him apart.

He slumps forward and comes to rest on John's chest, a heavy and boneless weight. John wipes his hand off on the sheets and then brings his arms up around Sherlock, holding him tight. It feels wonderful, almost as if there was no space left between them at all. John wants to lie here forever, feeling his and Sherlock's boundaries dissolve into nothing.

But Sherlock is somewhat heavy and soon John has to gently roll him off in order to continue breathing. Sherlock makes an unhappy little sound and opens his eyes halfway, looking at John dazedly from where he is now lying on his side. John smiles and reaches out to trail his fingers through Sherlock's hair. “Sorry, you're a little heavy,” he explains.

Sherlock smiles at that and then he reaches out and draws John tight against him, chest to chest. They take some time to sort out their limbs to everybody's satisfaction but they are both relaxed and tired from the revelations and exertions of the past hour. Soon enough they fall asleep with Sherlock's leg slung over John's thigh and John's head resting on Sherlock's shoulder, holding on tight.


	3. Such sober certainty of waking bliss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up and realises just how painfully complicated his situation is.

John wakes up feeling warm and content. He is lying on his side, Sherlock's sleeping body warm and relaxed against his back, except for the tight band of his arm clutching John to his chest.

Sunlight is streaming in through the window where they forgot to pull the curtains shut last night, and he feels a vibrant and all consuming happiness deep within the marrow of his bones. So much of John's life in the last three years has been built around Sherlock's absence that having him back, here and alive, feels a little like being kicked in the stomach by a bolt of lightning: A blinding surprise that steals his balance and fills him with a powerful joy.

And not only is Sherlock back, it's obvious that he feels about John the same way John has felt about Sherlock all along. The thought makes him blush with happy embarrassment. Sherlock is alive and back and he _loves John_. The look on his face as he had knelt in front of John last night had been unmistakable and John can feel bitterness drain out of himself like rainwater.

It had been hell to realise that he loved Sherlock as much more than a friend in the precise moment when he saw him commit suicide. John still remembers the way the world had seemed to cave in on itself in that one terrible second, vividly recalls the clear realisation that everything was ending. In the months following Sherlock's death, he had taken a cold and astringent kind of comfort from the idea that his feelings for Sherlock had most likely been unreciprocated. That it didn't matter that he had never understood, had never told Sherlock how he felt about him when he was still alive, for the simple reason that Sherlock did not love him back. John has never been so glad to be wrong in his entire life and he lets the warmth and happiness fill him up.

He has almost gone back to sleep, drifting in that enjoyable in-between-state where he can feel himself sink deeper towards unconsciousness with every breath, when his phone starts to ring downstairs.

Suddenly, John is wide awake, his heart beating in his throat, his stomach abruptly tense with guilt. He knows who the caller is all too well: He and Greg always talk on Saturday mornings to figure out how they will spend the weekend.

Shit. Greg. He needs to call Greg and tell him – No. He can't call Greg. Not now, not after he has just woken up next to Sherlock. _Jesus._

John carefully slips out from under Sherlock's arm, taking care not to jostle the mattress too much. Sherlock sleeps on unperturbed, snoring slightly, still exhausted.

John dresses quickly and silently and then walks downstairs. He makes himself a cup of tea and gets the phone out of his jacket pocket.

1 missed call (Greg)

1 unread message (Greg)

John can't bring himself to read the message. Instead, he puts the phone down on the kitchen table and then just stares at it from where he is straddling one of the kitchen chairs, his chin pressed down on the backrest.

He feels jittery and faintly nauseous as he contemplates the fact that he has just, effectively, cheated on Greg. At the same time, he can still feel elation and wonder tugging at his consciousness and he realises that not a cell in his body regrets what he and Sherlock have done.

But there is the fact that he has never considered himself a cheater before. And Greg...Greg is not just some bloke he shags on the weekends. What has grown up between them over the last three years is quite probably the most mature and intimate relationship John has ever had.

He still remembers the joyous intensity of their first few months together, the frisson of excitement he had felt whenever he got a call from Greg. During these first weeks, John would often stop by Scotland Yard on an impulse because he loved to see pleased surprise light up Greg's face. They hadn't been able to keep their hands off each other at the beginning and there had been a lot of illicit snogging in the backs of pubs, as well as, on one memorable occasion, in the on-call bedroom of John's hospital.

With time they have become a little less euphoric, a little more settled in their love. At the same time, something warm and good, something deep and real has developed between them. John knows Greg in ways he has never known another person. He feels intimate with his flaws and perfections, knows all the little idiosyncrasies that make him wonderful and annoying. That make him _Greg_. John doesn't think he has ever trusted another person so much in his life.

Being with Greg is effortless and lovely in ways that are shocking and new to John. With Greg he doesn't feel like he has to _try_ , like he has to perform, or be anything other than who he really is. He can be entirely himself and be loved for it, a truth so shocking he had to sit down the first time he thought it.

He would be a fool, though, to think that he doesn't love Sherlock just as much, if in a different way. Last night had been no stupid misstep fuelled by shock and euphoria. John can still feel the feather-light touches of Sherlock's kisses all over his body. He can still see the look in Sherlock's eyes, as if John was the most important thing in all the world. He knows he loves this brilliant, volatile man who has returned from the dead and who has knelt at his feet, offering himself with unexpected artlessness. Sherlock, to him, has always been life, incandescent and cruel, intoxicating and crushing, and now that he is back, John knows he can never let him go again.

It tears at him, this contradiction, this impossible and insistent truth that he loves both of them deeply, that there is no way he can choose Greg over Sherlock or vice versa. Abruptly he can't bear sitting still for another minute.

He jumps up, leaving his cold mug of tea on the table, grabs his jacket and heads out the door.

 

He walks for hours, blindly, impossible choices seething in his belly, his thoughts chasing each other like manic cats.

He makes it all the way to the Thames and then just keeps walking East until night falls and he finds himself on the Isle of Dogs. He realises that it has gone late and that, bizarrely, he feels like eating, that he is ravenous.

He makes his way to the steel-and-glass-towers of Canary Wharf, looking out over the river, posh and modern and arrogant after the terraces he has just traipsed through. He is sure to find food here but everything is obviously aimed at the yuppies working in the banks and insurance companies in the high-rises. Not really his style.

In the end, John ends up in a place called the Cat & Canary that makes at least an attempt at the dark and cosy pub atmosphere he usually prefers. He orders fish and chips and a lager, the savouriness of the salt and the sharpness of the vinegar contrasting the chilly mildness of the beer.

After he wolfs down his meal, he sits and thinks and drinks another. And then another. The alcohol doesn't really make his problems disappear and it sure as hell doesn't help with the thinking but John can feel himself getting closer and closer to blissful detachment and oblivion with every swallow and right now, that is good enough. He had sworn to himself at some point in his youth that he wouldn't ever drink when he was upset but that – well, that was before one of his lovers came back from the dead just when he had settled down comfortably with the other.

Eventually the barman refuses to serve him another pint and John has no alternative but to make his slow and ponderous way home via the Docklands Light Railway and the tube. Most of the way he simply stares out the window, no step closer to solving his dilemma but too tired and pissed to care anymore.


	4. A history of love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's romantic history as remembered by the man himself.
> 
> Or: 
> 
> Sherlock can't sleep and thinks about love.

The first time Sherlock wakes up, it's still dark outside and John is breathing deeply into his shoulder. He lies there for a moment, wide awake, trying to figure out if it is normal that his whole body seems to glow with happiness.1 He remembers a poetry class he had never quite got around to deleting and realises to his astonishment that all the ludicrous and physically impossible descriptions of love which poets seem so very fond of can currently be applied to him. He strokes his hand gently up and down John's back, reveling in the sensation of smooth skin against his calloused palms.2

He had tried to imagine this moment many times and the idea of being able to return to John and explain himself had sustained him through the harrowing and lonely three years of his absence.  Whenever he wanted to give up, to simply give in and leave the grisly work of eliminating key players in Moriarty's game to somebody else, the idea that he was doing this for the people he loved had kept him going. He longed to finally stand in front of John and to have his sacrifice seen for what it was, to meet Lestrade's eyes without shame for the destruction he has wrought, to see Mrs Hudson realise the value he placed on her life. The pain he felt on the rooftop of St. Barts three years ago, when he realised that he would have to leave everyone who had ever loved him without a word of explanation, had been surprising in its intensity.

He still wonders sometimes, if this had been Moriarty's true intention: To make him realise how fiercely he can _love_ , how impossibly important John had become, at the very moment when he had to leave him.

Meeting John, _getting to know_ John, had been one of the most delightful things to ever happen to him. He smiles broadly in the dark as he remembers that thrilling moment when he had realised that John was as excited by the glorious business of solving crimes as he was. When John had looked at him with charmed astonishment, so clearly awed and fascinated by Sherlock's mind that he kept paying him compliments almost involuntarily.

It had felt like the beginning of all his best friendships, like meeting Maggie when they were ten and she had taken one look at his bookcase and decided that they would be best friends for the rest of their lives.3 Like the first evening with Victor, when they had ended up on the shabby carpet between their beds4, drinking a bottle of wine and debating the theological origins of modernism. Like stepping onto his first crime scene, his mind exploding with chains of inferences, and realising that DS Lestrade was listening raptly, following along with most of his leaps and filling in information only available to those on the force. Though, Sherlock reflects, maybe that had been slightly different. With Lestrade, there had been an easily detectable air of concern, almost pity, at Sherlock's disheveled appearance and squalid quarters at the time, which hovered around the edges of Lestrade's enjoyment and admiration.

But John – John had been utterly intriguing. He had fascinated Sherlock with his instant loyalty, with the way his insistent goodness mixed so easily with his ability to be around violence, with the way he had been unimpressed by Sherlock's not-so-subtle attempts to test his limits. The easy generosity and honesty of his admiration had sparked something in Sherlock, making him want to reciprocate.

He can still feel the heady excitement of realising he had been able to cure John of his limp. It had been more than the satisfaction of the experimenter who has successfully applied his theoretical knowledge to effect a change in the physical world, though that had been gratifying. He had found, to his astonishment, that he had wanted to do something for John, to make him smile and shake his head in wonder, and seeing him clear the distance between rooftops after only a moment's hesitation, his cane entirely forgotten, had felt as invigorating as solving a case.

A car rumbles past outside5, dragging him out of his memories, and Sherlock realises to his annoyance that he is hungry and will have to get up, his jet-lagged body demanding nourishment at the most inconvenient of times.

He slips out of the bed and makes his way downstairs, naked and silent. He finds the remains of a shepherd's pie in the fridge, of the kind that Lestrade enjoys making6, and settles himself at the kitchen table with a fork. The pie is a slightly disconcerting reminder that John and Lestrade have been sharing each other's lives for almost as long as he has been gone. He feels a tiny twitch of guilt at the idea that by sleeping with John he has effectively had sex with Lestrade's partner, realising that most of the world would consider this cheating. But Lestrade, he knows, has a different view of these matters. He had never deigned to explain the situation fully, but Sherlock knows that Annie and he had had a somewhat unconventional arrangement which did allow outside liaisons. Surely, Lestrade had a similar agreement with John? The alternative seems scarcely possible. John is, after all, the most morally upstanding person Sherlock knows. No, he tells himself, if John and Lestrade were in an exclusive relationship, John would definitely have stopped them last night.

He sighs with contentment as he finishes up the last morsels of the pie, the home-made food satisfying in a way that sandwiches and take-away never quite are. He climbs the stairs again, as quietly as he can, and slides in under the duvet. John, who is still fast asleep, immediately crowds closer, pressing his back against Sherlock's chest and Sherlock is happy to let him, to feel the evidence of John's presence all along his body.7

He tries, as he has tried many times before, to ascertain when exactly it was that the enjoyment of John's company had turned into more than just friendship. It is something Sherlock has always found difficult to notice about himself, his mind seemingly playing tricks on him when it comes to the issue of love and desire. Both have a tendency to sneak up on him while he is busy with other things.

He and John, he thinks, evolved together like beach grass settling a coastal dune, slowly and inevitably, the roots of the plants permeating every inch of the dune and giving it stability while drawing their life out of the dried algae collecting on the edge of it. By the time Sherlock had realised how much John meant to him, how much more he was than a room-mate and friend, John's presence had become necessary to a degree that was almost terrifying. It had hit him with painful intensity in the moment when he realised what exactly it was that John was wearing as he stepped out into the swimming pool under Moriarty's orders, scattering his thoughts and making it impossible to think for valuable seconds. But that, he knows, was only the endpoint of the development of his feelings and it irks him that he can never quite establish where it began.

It had been just like that with Victor, midnight debates and study sessions suddenly crystalising into painful want at the exact moment Victor informed Sherlock that he would spend the next year in an exchange program at Harvard and was hoping to stay there for his PhD. Sherlock had been inexperienced enough at the time to state his feelings out loud and the uncomfortable silence that had ruled their room for the last three weeks still makes him squeeze his eyes shut as he remembers the humiliation and loneliness he had felt at the time.

John makes a quiet snuffling noise, curling his hand around Sherlock's arm where it is slung over his waist and Sherlock presses his face between John's shoulder blades for a moment, drinking in his scent and reminding himself that this time his feelings have turned out to be reciprocated.8 It is wonderfully freeing, this realisation that this is possible, that he can love and have somebody love him back. He sighs with contentment, tightening his grip on John a little.

It had been something he had been uncertain about for long, agonising months, the question of whether John loved him driving him into vicious circles of hope and self-doubt. John, that much was obvious, clearly had feelings for him, cared for him, loved him, even. But what kind of love was it? His affection and care, the way he had unthinkingly put his relationship with Sherlock above any of his flings and dates, indicated a surprising level of commitment.

At the same time, John had never given any indication of desiring him that Sherlock had been able to detect. This in conjunction with John's steady stream of girlfriends had lead him to believe that John might love him, but hardly as more than a very good friend. The realisation had been painful but not unbearable. Sherlock has never had a very active sex drive and the connection that other people seem to inevitably draw between love and sex has always puzzled him. Sex is mildly enjoyable, certainly, and he had wanted to get that close to Victor once he had realised how important he had become, had been desperate for Lestrade to acknowledge the intensity of their relationship in this way, once upon a time. But with John so close every day, with their lives already as intertwined as if they were a couple, its absence had been much more bearable. If not confessing his love would keep John around forever, as it had seemed it would, Sherlock had been prepared to keep this secret for the rest of his life.

It was a decision he had only regretted when he had realised that Moriarty had outplayed him after all, when he had realised just how great the risk was that he would have to leave John alone with pain and deception without ever having shared this part of himself. But telling John he loved him at that very moment would have been beyond cruel. Unforgivable.

And so he had taken his secret with him on the run, had held it close like a child grasping a rose, the pain of the thorns never quite enough to convince it to let go of the beauty. In his most desperate moments he had told himself that surely once he came back, once John had seen what Sherlock had done for him, John would recognise the depth of the regard Sherlock held for him and would be unable not to return it. At the same time and when he was more in control of his reasoning, he had been desperately aware that this hope might turn out to be false.

The memories of these painful and lonely months is speeding up his breathing and the pace of his heart, he knows, and John stirs next to him. He grasps Sherlock's hand tightly and murmurs sleepily: “You alright? You're not freaking out on me, are you?”

Sherlock forces himself to exhale and pushes one of his legs between John's, drawing them together so closely they might as well be the same organism.

“No,” he says, when he knows he has his voice back under control, “I'm perfectly fine, go back to sleep.”

At that, John presses a sloppy, imprecise kiss to Sherlock's hand and then his breathing evens out again.

Sherlock closes his eyes as well, conjuring up in his mind the look on John's face when he had told Sherlock he loved him, when he had leaned down to meet him in their first kiss. It is wonderful to know that his hopes were justified, that, finally, everything is right with the world. The thought carries him off into sleep.

 

 

When he wakes up again, he can tell by the angle of the light coming in through the small window and by the level of noise outside that he has slept late, and when he finally succeeds in digging his mobile out of his trousers he realises that it is past two. John is gone, has obviously been gone for a while judging by the state of the almost full mug of tea he left behind, and Sherlock realises that he needs to re-establish his familiarity with John's schedule.

He seats himself at the desk that has grown strangely tidy in his absence and hacks John's password with ease. As soon as the computer9 flares into life, however, all thoughts of John's working hours are pushed aside as he realises that he will finally be able to check his website again with impunity, that he can look for _cases_ again. He has missed the thrill and intellectual challenge of it dreadfully and the idea of being able to present John with a case when he comes home, to see his eyes light up and his posture straighten with excitement is intoxicating.

The first thing he does, is to put up a banner announcing his return. Next, he posts a blog entry giving a carefully edited account of the reasons for, and his activities during, his absence. Within seconds, the message boards explode and his inbox is soon overflowing with well-wishes, questions, cases and a number of very angry mails accusing him of being a troll who is impersonating Sherlock Holmes. He spends two happy hours digging through his email and filtering out a number of cases that are recent and interesting enough to warrant further attention.

When he gets peckish he looks in on Mrs Hudson who has a minor conniption, turning very white and then almost crushing him in a painful hug.10

“How dare you do that to an old woman like me!” she scolds, as she angrily wipes away her tears, “it would have served you right if I had dropped dead from the shock when you came in just now.”

Soon, however, she is fussing over him as she used to, making them tea and toasting tea cakes11, while she keeps up a steady stream of concerned observations about his weight loss and the state of his clothes. It is wonderfully soothing and Sherlock finds himself eating his tea cake more slowly than is entirely warranted, for once not eager to escape her motherly attentions.

Finally, however, he remembers his original mission.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I need to go back upstairs, I have to find out when John will be back tonight.”

“Oh, is he gone?” She sounds so surprised that Sherlock stops for a moment, turning around in the doorway.

“Yes,” he says neutrally, “I assume he is working. I just need to check when he will be done.”

“But John never works on the first weekend of the month, dear,” Mrs Hudson says, sounding confused now, “he has some sort of special arrangement with the hospital. It's on account of him and Greg, you see,” she explains, “they both work so hard, poor dears. At some point they decided to keep at least one weekend free no matter what happened at work because they would never see each other otherwise.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says, surprise and worry settling uncomfortably in his stomach, “I see.”

He paces the living room for a bit trying to come up with a way of deducing John's whereabouts from the things he left behind but other than the fact that he left in a hurry and was not expecting to stay out this long, he is at a loss. Which is decidedly not a feeling he enjoys.

He texts and finally calls John several times, his agitation rising with each attempt but when it is nearly six and John has neither shown up nor answered any of his messages, he finally, grudgingly, calls Mycroft.

“Brother dear,” Mycroft sounds far too smug for Sherlock's liking, “what can I do for you? Can it be that you are forced to rely on my help again, only 24 hours after your return?”

Sherlock grits his teeth and counts backwards from 27.351849. It won't do to lose his temper and to give Mycroft the satisfaction of making him apologise.

“John,” he finally grits out, “is missing. He isn't at work and he won't answer his phone.”

“Hm,” Mycroft says non-commitantly, “give me a moment to check. And Sherlock? I am so happy to know that things with John have worked out as you hoped.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and hisses: “That is none of your bloody business, now can you tell me anything I don't already know or – ”

“Patience, Sherlock, patience,” Mycroft rebukes him. “Despite what you may think I do not actually spend all of my waking moments observing your life with rapt attention. – Ah, here we go. Well, it seems that your lover” – the way Mycroft makes the word into a sneer makes Sherlock want to punch something – “is currently at a pub in Canary Wharf and has been drinking steadily for the last hour. By himself. Considering the history of alcoholism in his family – ”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Sherlock snaps, more worried than ever. He knows John never drinks alone, never drinks when he is angry or upset.

“Indeed,” Mycroft replies cooly. “I should also inform you that I have just taken the liberty of informing Detective Inspector Lestrade of your continued existence. I should not be surprised if you would find yourself in his company very soon.”

“What?” Sherlock asks, confused and annoyed. He had meant to head out and look for John. “Hasn't John – ”

“ – Called him? I am afraid not.”

“And you had to call him now? Damn it, Mycroft –”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft's tone is suddenly cutting in a way he only employs when he is seriously displeased with the way Sherlock has been behaving. “After all the man has done for you, he deserved this information, don't you think?”

Before Sherlock can protest that right now, John's inexplicable behaviour is of far more importance, Mycroft continues.

“And don't worry. I've already informed the publican that he is not to serve any more alcohol to Dr. Watson. I expect him to start on his way home as soon as he has finished his last pint. I will keep you abreast of any further developments.” With that, the line is dead.

Sherlock curses and throws the phone viciously onto the couch where it bounces off the cushions, almost tumbling to the floor.

He measures the living room twice with long strides, his hands clenched in his hair as he tries to assimilate the data he has collected so far. John left some time around 11 this morning, not intending to stay out. He is currently drinking alone in a pub that is in a part of the city to which John does not have a single connection. He has not called Lestrade and he is not answering Sherlock's calls, either.

Sherlock comes to a halt in front of the windows, staring out into the street unseeingly as the pattern comes together in his head. John is miserable. John is miserable and he does not want to talk to either Sherlock or Lestrade. After last night's events, that can only mean one thing: John had not, in fact, been within the bounds of his agreement with Lestrade as he took Sherlock to bed last night.

Sherlock is surprised to feel his stomach ache fiercely at the thought. He is aware enough of romantic tropes to know that what he should be feeling right now is triumph: John chose Sherlock over his partner of three years. It should be immensely gratifying, Sherlock thinks, as he watches a familiar car pull up outside. That all Sherlock had to do in order to make John overstep his boundaries was to show up. Instead, he feels faintly nauseous. He has not forgotten the look on Lestrade's face when Annie had finally dropped by to hand him the divorce papers and the idea of being responsible for creasing Lestrade's face into lines of pain and betrayal like that is almost unbearable.

Before he can possibly come up with any kind of solution, however, he can hear the man on the steps and then the door flies open, admitting Greg Lestrade looking wild and more than a little suspicious.

 

 

1Not actual phosphoresence, of course, that would be highly alarming. But his proprioception seems to disagree with his vision in this case, telling him that he _should_ be seeing at least some trace of the warmth suffusing his body.

2It had been an unwelcome surprise to realise just how much change three years of holding weapons instead of the neck of his violin had caused in his hands.

3As Maggie had been visiting her grandmother during the summer holidays, the rest of their lives had ended up lasting for 3 months but it had been the best holidays he had ever had.

4Which had surely never been taken out since the student halls had been built in the 1960s.

5A used BMW which needs new tyres.

6A habit from his working class childhood

7John's body has changed as well, he knows, the hospital work broadening the muscles of his back into unfamiliar lines.

8The shirt John is wearing is soft and old but evidently not one of his own. Most likely Lestrade's.

9An old macbook, no doubt another present from Harry which meant that she was still on the wagon.

10The arthritis in her left arm has become more severe and her blood pressure has increased. He might have to bully her into another holiday soon.

11From the cafe out front which has apparently seen a change of owners.


	5. A hint of the resurrection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _But the apparition is real, is moving towards him now with Sherlock's unmistakable stride and Greg makes a desperate noise somewhere in the back of his throat and lunges forward._
> 
>  
> 
> Lestrade and Sherlock, finally reunited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand apologies to my dear, awesome readers whose comments have all vanished. I hit the wrong button at the wrong time, which is madly frustrating because it also means that all the hits and kudos are gone as well. :-(

Greg fumbles the key twice before he manages to put it into the lock, his hands are shaking that badly. There is still a part of him that is holding out for all of this to be a cruel joke. He has spent three long years accepting this, dealing with this, reminding himself that Sherlock is dead and nothing will bring him back.

 

Now, he sprints up the stairs two at a time and shoves open the door to the sitting room and - - - he stands frozen in the doorway, his heart stopping for an instant and then pounding away in his chest as if it was looking to jump out.

 

There, in front of the window, half turned around towards him, stands Sherlock Holmes, in the flesh. He looks gaunt where he used to be lanky, his suit hanging awkwardly where it used to fall in perfectly tailored lines, his hair short and, strangely, ginger. But it is still unmistakably Sherlock, alive and breathing. Greg is glad, oh so glad he got that phone call from Mycroft Holmes earlier because if it wasn't for that he would think he had finally gone around the bend.

 

But the apparition is real, is moving towards him now with Sherlock's unmistakable stride and Greg makes a desperate noise somewhere in the back of his throat and lunges forward. He pulls Sherlock tight against him, wrapping both arms around him and holds on for dear life because... God. _God_.

 

Sherlock is pressed against him, shoulder to knee and he feels bony and strange but real, oh so real. Greg's arms tighten of their own accord as if to make sure that Sherlock doesn't suddenly disappear from between them and he realises he is shaking. His voice when he finally manages to speak is hoarse and thick, having to force its way past an enormous lump in his throat.

 

“You're here. You're really here.” A hysterical little laugh escapes him and he snaps his mouth shut on it. Takes a deep breath. Another. Sherlock is holding perfectly still against him, his hands light and tentative on Greg's back.

 

“You're actually here. Alive.” A joy blooms in his chest that is magnificent and utterly overwhelming in its intensity.

 

“You aren't dead, you mad bastard. You aren't dead!” He almost shouts those last words and Sherlock laughs against him, an amused rumble deep in his chest.

 

“It would appear so.”

 

Greg can finally bring his arms to loosen a little and he takes a step back to look at Sherlock.

 

Sherlock is regarding him with a wary expectancy but there is a smile playing over his face, too, that is both joyous and a little vulnerable. He puts his hands on either side of Sherlock's head and pulls him forward a little so that their foreheads are touching. They stand there for a long moment, not moving, breathing each other's air. Greg feels as if he weighs no more than a sheet of paper. As if the slightest breath would make him float up and away. There are muscles he didn't even know were tense unknotting in his back and he realises to his embarrassment that there are tears running down his face.

 

After a moment, Sherlock breaks their hold and gently leads him to one of the armchairs. He sits down, sniffling a little and ends up wiping his nose on his sleeve. He watches as Sherlock moves into the kitchen to make tea, drinking in the sight of the tall, long-limbed figure and his characteristic movements that he'd thought never to see again. Sherlock looks a little strained, and he is not looking at Greg at all when he can help it. Greg's inner policeman notes this detail down and wants to investigate but the rest of him is still too shaken and overwhelmed to care.

 

He has to put a hand in front of his mouth, though he is not entirely sure what he is holding back – a sob? more hysterical laughter? a scream of joy? - as he lets the truth settle into him. Sherlock Holmes is alive and back. Sherlock Holmes is making him tea and adding what looks like three heaping spoonfuls of sugar to the cup he then carries over to Greg, his eyes fixed firmly on a spot just to the side of Greg's head.

 

A little confused by the silence and Sherlock's uncharacteristic hesitancy, Greg gratefully cradles the mug against his chest, the heat seeming to alleviate his trembling. As he watches Sherlock sit down opposite him, he is abruptly desperate to hear the man's voice.

 

“How - ” he has to clear his throat, take a sip of the disgustingly sweet tea and then try again, because he sounds like somebody has taken sandpaper to his vocal cords.

 

“How did you do it, then? I mean, I, I examined your corpse myself.” What an absurd statement but Greg still remembers that dreadful moment in the morgue with absolute clarity and he is desperate to know, to hear all the details that will make this real.

 

At that, Sherlock seems to look even more pinched and – guilty, Greg realises, Sherlock is looking guilty. What the hell?

 

Sherlock clears his throat and explains: “Molly kindly assisted me in procuring a corpse which matched my physique.”

 

Greg shakes his head, trying to clear away the feeling that the world has spun off its axis completely. “But John saw you fall, Sherlock! John saw you fall!” Lord knows, he should know that. He has woken John more than once from nightmares that left him gasping and whimpering and which made Greg selfishly glad that he hadn't been there, hadn't actually seen that swan dive for himself.

 

The thought of John is painful right now, because Greg is absolutely certain that John must know that Sherlock is back, must in fact, have known since last night. And he hasn't called Greg once. But he shoves the thought and the accompanying anger away for the moment, wanting to concentrate on what Sherlock is telling him, taking another sip of the overly sweet tea. It seems to settle his stomach and to take some of the shock with it.

 

Sherlock looks like he wants to say something for a moment and then forcefully closes his mouth and shakes his head before finally explaining: “I had anticipated Moriarty to a certain degree. Men like him don't meet on rooftops for the view. I...arranged for a safe landing.”

 

Greg still doesn't understand, still has a million questions as to how exactly Sherlock managed all that, but right now, now that the heat and calories from the tea are slowly returning him to working order, he has another more important question burning his tongue.

 

“Why, Sherlock? Why the hell didn't you tell us? What – what could possibly've been more important than letting us know you weren't dead, you stupid bastard? You must have known that none of us believed that drivel!”

 

His voice has become louder and more cutting but he can't help himself. He thinks of all the times he lay awake at night, stomach knotted tight in sympathy with a man who had not, in fact, actually been dead. He remembers John's patient visits to the grave every week and Mrs Hudson's tears, and he is suddenly so angry that he has to clench his hands around the tea mug so he doesn't throw it on the floor like a toddler having a strop.

 

Sherlock winces and looks to the side for a moment. He seems strangely hunched and tense in his armchair, both hands on the armrests, fingers tightening against the upholstery for a moment.

 

“Moriarty had made sure of that, too. There were three gunmen aimed at you, John and Mrs Hudson. If anybody in his organisation had had the slightest idea that I wasn't dead, the killing order would have been issued immediately.”

 

“Oh.” It is not a terribly eloquent response but Greg thinks he has earned some surprised gaping. After a moment he shuts his mouth and promises himself that he will think about the implications of this later. There is a part of him that can't suppress a shiver of satisfaction at the fact that Moriarty had regarded him as important enough to be part of the threat.

 

“So, what did you do?” he finally asks.

 

Sherlock blows out a breath and waves one hand in a dismissive fashion.

 

“Oh, I took out his organisation, of course. Mycroft assisted me in one or two ways but it mostly involved a lot of running about and political intrigue.” Sherlock sounds blasé but Greg can see that there are lines on his face that didn't used to be there and he notices that one of Sherlock's hands is opening and closing convulsively. He remembers suddenly that Sherlock, for all his fascination with crime, hadn't ever killed anyone and he has a sudden and chilling inkling of the lessons Sherlock learned during his absence.

 

“It was never meant to go on for this long but I regrettably underestimated the complexity of Moriarty's crime syndicate.” Sherlock looks apologetic again, his eyes dark with an emotion Greg cannot read, and that is just plain wrong. Sherlock Holmes apologising?

 

Greg feels an absurd impulse to laugh but then they hear stumbling steps coming up the stairs and a moment later the door opens, framing John, who is swaying slightly.

 

They sit there, motionless, for a moment, a strange tableau: Greg and Sherlock facing each other in the armchairs, John staring at both of them from the doorway.

 

Greg can see him swallow convulsively and then John clenches his jaw and looks away.

 

“Greg.” There is guilt and regret in John's tone, a guarded anticipation.

 

“John.” His own tone is tightly neutral. He and John will have to talk and he has a lot he wants to say about what it feels like when your partner has momentuous information that concerns you both and keeps it to himself. He just doesn't want to say it right at this moment.

 

“I see you found - you found out.” John stumbles over his own words a little and Greg suddenly realises the daft bugger is drunk. Not just drunk – John is utterly _shitfaced_.

 

“Mycroft called me.” He explains, worry rising as he takes in John's appearance. For John to be this drunk at eight in the evening, he must have started early. John never drinks before seven and he never usually gets this drunk.

 

“Ah, I see.”

 

Greg suddenly wants to take John by the shoulders and shake him. He wants to scream in his face. “What the hell is wrong with you? You know I love him, too!” he wants to yell. “How could you? How could you not tell me? How could you keep this to yourself for a whole day, and then go out and get utterly plastered instead of calling me, you selfish bastard?”

 

But he looks down and tries to compose himself. Oh, they are going to have this conversation. But not here and not now. Not with Sherlock sitting two feet from him and the joy of his return still bubbling in Greg's veins like champagne. Not with John off his bloody head.

 

After a moment John carefully turns around and slowly makes his way up the stairs. Greg raises his eyes and looks at Sherlock, his gaze drawn as if by some magnetic force. Sherlock is looking at him knowingly and Greg realises in a flash that Sherlock knows about him and John. It calls up a strange mix of emotions, this revelation. He feels exposed and doubly hurt that these two have somehow not found it necessary to inform him, knowing what they do. He also feels a certain amount of possessive pride and can't help but think 'He isn't just yours now, not anymore.' But that is utter nonsense, of course: John is neither his nor Sherlock's, is not a possession to be fought over. He also feels obscurely guilty, as if he had stolen his way in where he has no right to be. There is something inevitable about Sherlock and John, in a way that there never has been about John and him.

 

He wants to look away suddenly, to get up and go but Sherlock licks his lips nervously and looks at him in a way that makes it impossible for Greg to move. He realises that his own feelings of guilt are mirrored on Sherlock's face. Which is just plain absurd, of course. Unless – and suddenly Greg's mind is filled with vivid images of just exactly what Sherlock and John have been getting up to over the last few hours.

 

He gives a dry, tired laugh, unable to help himself.

 

“Of course. I should've known.” And really, he should. He and John have something that is special and solid. They have moments of surprising sweetness with each other and the quiet joy of companionship. They take delight in each other and in the closeness that has grown between them.

 

But Greg doesn't even for a moment give in to the illusion that anything would ever have happened between them, had Sherlock not stepped off that rooftop. They have built what they have around his absence and now that he is back Greg would be a fool to think he can compete with the intensity that has bound these two together from the start. John had slotted himself into Sherlock's life in a way Greg had never wanted to, their jagged edges fitting so perfectly it spit and crackled almost audibly, their imperfections complementary in a way that was absurdly powerful.

 

He shakes his head and gets up, noticing to his surprise that Sherlock looks deeply uncomfortable as he, too, rises.

 

“Lestrade – Greg - ”

 

Greg can't help the way his eyebrows are trying to crawl up into his hairline. Never in all the years he has known Sherlock has the man called him by his first name. It is almost as strange as the hesitancy in his tone and the fact that he is extending one hand towards him as if gesturing for Greg to stay.

 

He shakes his head and gathers up his coat, but when he moves towards the door Sherlock intercepts him. He steps directly into Greg's path and looks at him in a way that Greg would call pleading in anyone else. Ridiculous thought, Sherlock Holmes pleading.

 

But his voice, when he speaks is strangely soft, softer than Greg has ever heard before.

 

“I am sorry. I really am. I had no idea – ” Sherlock swallows visibly. “I thought, you and John were – that you had – ” Sherlock keeps stumbling over his words which is another thing Greg did not think he would ever get to see. Finally, Sherlock settles on: “You and Annie had an arrangement. It was OK for either one of you to – ”

 

And it finally hits Greg what Sherlock is trying to say. He laughs tiredly. “Yeah, Annie and I had an open relationship. But John and I don't.”

 

Sherlock nods. “Yes. But you should know that last night I thought –”

 

And Greg wants to believe him, he really does. It hurts badly enough that John would disregard their relationship like this, it would be nice to think that Sherlock, at least, had acted in innocence.

 

But what he ends up saying is: “Oh, really?” And even he can hear how incredulous he sounds. “Are you really telling me that you took a moment out of your busy schedule of fucking John to consider my feelings? You must think I'm stupid.” Because it's hard to believe that these two, once re-united, would have the mental space for anyone else and it is even harder to think calmly and fairly about things through the haze of anger and pain.

 

To his surprise, Sherlock looks genuinely hurt at his words. “You don't believe me?” He asks, and he sounds so astonished that Greg feels his certainty shake a little. Sherlock looks naïve and unguarded, which is a look Greg hasn't seen in almost ten years.

 

When Sherlock frowns, it looks as if he is both earnestly confused and personally offended. “I didn't just do it for him, you know,” he says and it takes Greg a moment to realise what Sherlock is talking about. “I spent three years going up against the most wide-reaching criminal empire ever to originate in Britain,” Sherlock's voice is rising now, “and I did it to keep you safe. All of you!” Then both his face and his voice soften again. “And I did not purposefully...if I had known...I had no idea John was... That he was _cheating_ on you last night,” he finally says. Greg closes his eyes on the pain for a moment because, yes, that right there is the word he has been trying not to think. Cheating. It is an ugly, bitter word and he hates it.

 

“I – You should know that I missed you, too,” Sherlock says, “that I would not voluntarily do that to you,” and he sounds so earnest Greg cannot help but believe him.

 

He tries to smile and pats Sherlock on the shoulder. “Well, you're back now and that's good. That's really, bloody good,” he finally says. Because of that he is sure. He means it, God does he mean it. Everything else will have to wait.

 

That doesn't make it hurt any less as he makes his way back to his flat, his joy over Sherlock's return mixing uncomfortably with jealousy and the pungent taste of betrayal in his mouth.


	6. A banquet of consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Greg finally talk.

As soon as Lestrade is gone, Sherlock looks in on John, who is lying on his bed still fully dressed, curled up into the fetal position.

  
  


“John?” he asks carefully, as he steps closer, anxiety churning in his belly. John's uncharacteristic behaviour is more than a little worrisome and try as he might, every possible explanation Sherlock can think of is as alarming as the next.

  
  


John opens one eye and stares at Sherlock blearily. “Sorry,” he mumbles, “should've told you where I was. Didn't hear my phone.”

  
  


Sherlock nods. “Yes,” he says, sitting down on the edge of the bed1, “John, why didn't you call Lestrade?” Knowing, he tells himself is always better than worrying. He doesn't believe himself at all.

  
  


John's look of misery at the question is answer enough. He closes his eyes again and mutters: “Couldn't. Not with...last night. Stupid. That was very stupid.”

  
  


His speech is slow and careful and Sherlock can feel his anxiety ratchet up another notch. Usually, John does not get this drunk. That John has decided to disregard the care he normally displays around substance use out of guilt seems highly likely. But guilt about what? Has he decided to end his relationship with Lestrade in favour of Sherlock? The idea has not become any less disquieting. If anything, meeting Lestrade, and seeing the hurt on his face when he realised the full extent of John's transgression, has only strengthened Sherlock's conviction that he has absolutely no desire to be the wedge that drives these two men apart.

  
  


At the same time, the fact that John has acted so far outside his usual moral code is utterly disconcerting. Yes, one explanation is that John decided to disregard the relationship he has with Lestrade. However, John's utterance just now makes him aware that it is also entirely possible that John has come to the conclusion that their lovemaking last night was a terrible mistake that is in no way worth the consequences. The thought brings an almost unbearable sadness up from the pit of his stomach.

  
  


While he had been gone, he hadn't envied John and Lestrade their relationship. After the distressing experience of seeing John cry at his graveside and being able to do nothing about it, it had been a relief to realise that John was safe in the hands of the one man he trusts almost more than John himself. But he had always imagined that there was a space for him, too, in that relationship. The idea that there might not be, that John might choose Lestrade over him, is icy and terrifying.

  
  


He has to know for sure, even if it kills him. “Do you...,” he has to swallow before he can continue, his eyes fixed on John's old and battered wardrobe, his throat suddenly painfully tight, “does that mean you regret what we – ” That's as far as he gets before John's hand shoots out, seizing Sherlock by the sleeve and shaking him a little.

  
  


“No!” John says fiercely, “I love you. I love you, you great big idiot. But. But I love him, too.” He groans and sits up, leaning against the headboard, listing a little, holding his head in both hands. “I just... I should've talked to him. Before, I mean.”

  
  


Sherlock nods, relief making him lightheaded, the fist that seemed to have grabbed his stomach slowly loosening its grip. At the same time, his confusion has increased way past the level that he finds enjoyable when it comes to personal relationships.

  
  


If John loves both him and Lestrade, what does that mean? It seems like a Gordian knot to Sherlock, one that he is loath to touch, afraid that everything will fall apart once it is unravelled.

  
  


“So,” he prods finally, hoping that John has answers he is not aware of, but John just shrugs helplessly.

  
  


“I really don't know Sherlock. I don't know. All I know is that I love both of you. And that I will do my damnest to make this work.” He nods carefully, “yes, we will make this work.” His last sentence is spoken in the tone of voice Sherlock recognises from having observed John with terrified patients. It carries the quiet conviction that all will be well and it has never failed to work on Sherlock, even though he knows that it is at least partly simple suggestion. But then, in his experience, it has always been backed up by John's remarkable competence with repairing damage and he hopes that this will be no different. Sherlock exhales slowly and nods, too. John is right. They will make this work. John, after all, has a lot of experiences with relationships, he must know what he's talking about.

  
  


His fears momentarily assuaged, Sherlock gets up and fetches two pint glasses of water form the kitchen and some aspirin from the bathroom.2 When he gets back upstairs, John has fallen asleep again, so that he simply puts the items down on the nightstand. He considers getting into bed with John, but John is exuding a rather unpleasant smell of alcohol3, and besides Sherlock is much too agitated to be able to go to sleep right now.

  
  


In the end, he selects a case and sets to work. It is wonderfully relaxing to occupy his mind with the death of a human being which he did not cause while the night sounds of London only serve to highlight the quiet inside.4 It takes him roughly 88 minutes to solve the case of poor Mr McPherson and his little dog, but then, jellyfish are quite ingenious murder weapons. He makes a note to tell John about this one. He always enjoys the more unusual cases and Sherlock loves to see the mix of amusement and respect his more shocking cases make John display.

  
  


Sherlock is in the middle of emailing his conclusions to his client when a loud crash from upstairs jolts him to his feet. He is on the landing outside John's door almost before he realises what he is doing and when he steps inside, he finds John on his hands and knees as he gathers up the shards of the glass he has knocked to the floor.

  
  


“John?” He asks cautiously. If this is a night terror 5 , then John will in all likelihood not recognise him or even respond to his voice.

  
  


John looks up at him, his eyes clear and his face set in the familiar mask of stoic acceptance Sherlock remembers from their first few months together. Not a night terror, then, merely a nightmare, albeit one without the muscle atonia that usually prevents people from acting out their dreams.

  
  


“Sorry,” John says, his voice still rough with sleep, “didn't mean to make such a racket.”

  
  


Sherlock shrugs and watches as John carefully wraps the remains of the glass in a sheet of paper and puts it in the bin.

  
  


“What were you dreaming about?” He finally asks, because he is genuinely interested, always has been, in John's fissures and cracks just as much as in his vitality and solidity.

  
  


John grimaces as he sits back down on the bed and just like that, Sherlock knows.

  
  


“Oh,” he says, “you were dreaming about me, you were dreaming about –”

  
  


“Your suicide, yes,” John interrupts, tiredly. He shakes his head and when he looks at Sherlock, it is like staring into a gaping wound, raw and painful in the extreme.

  
  


“Why did you do it?” John asks, his voice pleading and soft. “Why did you tell me to look at you?”

  
  


Sherlock frowns, utterly confused. “I explained the situation to you, John, Moriarty –”

  
  


John laughs, a brief hitch of breath that sounds almost like a sob. “I don't give a fiddler's fart about Moriarty,” he says and for some reason he sounds angry now, which only deepens Sherlock's bafflement. “I,” John continues, “care about why my best friend asked me to watch him die, Sherlock. Do you have any idea what that feels like?”

  
  


“No,” Sherlock admits, “I don't. But I didn't have a choice. It had to be believable, it had to be  _ real _ or you would have died instead. And for the same reason you had to believe I was dead until I had eliminated the threat. I am sorry, John, I really am, but there was no other way.” Surely this must be obvious? Sherlock had explained his situation for hours last night, could John possible have forgotten all of it already?

  
  


But John is just shaking his head, rubbing a hand over his mouth. When he finally speaks, his voice is shaking slightly though Sherlock would be hard pressed to say whether it is from anger or hurt. “You know, there were days where I wished it  _ had _ been me instead.”

  
  


For a moment, Sherlock's heart stops, literally skipping a beat and then he is shaking his head vigorously trying to convey the utter impossibility of that alternative.

  
  


“John,” he says helplessly, “no, please, you have to understand – ”

  
  


“No,” John says with quiet determination, “I don't.” He climbs back under the covers without looking at Sherlock who still stands in the doorway, clutching the lintel.

  
  


For a moment, he considers walking over to the bed and grabbing John's shoulder, making him turn around and  _ listen _ . But there is something to the brittle tension of John's back that tells Sherlock very clearly just what a colossally bad idea that would be.

  
  


  
  


  
  


By the time John staggers down in the morning, clutching his head and squinting into the phosphoresence of the kitchen light, Sherlock has solved three of the cases from his in-box and  has almost managed to distract himself from the mental image of John bleeding out in the street that his mind kept bringing up whenever he started to feel tired. The nagging, hollow feeling that he has misjudged something between them very deeply remains.

  
  


“Morning,” John groans and Sherlock flashes him a brief, uncertain smile. He watches John shuffle over to the counter where he puts the kettle on and drops a teabag into a mug.

  
  


In their unforgiving kitchen light, the dark bags under his eyes are clearly visible and Sherlock can see new parallel lines have joined the previous ones on his forehead. There is no reason, Sherlock thinks, that John Watson should be as beautiful to him as he is. He has tried again and again to pin down what it is that makes John so fascinating to look at. Is it the stark blue of his eyes? Or the thin line of his lips? He knows about the studies on facial symmetry but John's face is not more symmetrical than most. Sometimes, Sherlock wonders if he falls for people because he has managed to get to know them intimately. There is almost nothing in the world that does not become fascinating once you get wrapped up in the complexity of its myriad details. On the other hand, it is also entirely possible that becoming obsessed with knowing every detail of a person's life is his way of falling in love. The old adage that familiarity breeds contempt had proven itself false at least three times already.

  
  


It is only when John plunks himself down at the table next to Sherlock, looking like he is trying to crawl into his tea mug, that Sherlock realises that he has been staring at John the entire time he has been making tea.

  
  


“John,” Sherlock says as neutrally as he can, “last night –”

  
  


John stiffens next to him, the sleep soft expression of his face immediately turning guarded. “Leave it be, yeah?” He says, without looking Sherlock fully in the face.

  
  


Sherlock wants to say something, wants to make the painful lines disappear from around John's eyes but he has truly no idea what could possibly achieve that.

  
  


After a moment, John clears his throat and says: “So, what are you up to, then?”

  
  


  
  


Sherlock sighs with relief. This, at least, is familiar and well-practiced. “Cases,” he says happily, because this is home, this is  _ them _ . Working out mysteries and sharing them with John is wonderfully familiar and helps to push the frightening chaos of emotions to the side for the moment. “Mycroft, to my eternal surprise, has sent over an interesting one. Are you coming along?”

  
  


John frowns. “Sorry, I'll be at work all day.” He looks sincerely unhappy about it 6 , but also determined. Sherlock can feel himself deflate a little.

  
  


“But what if I need you?” He asks earnestly. “I might require your medical assistance or exacting marksmanship.”7

  
  


John looks tempted for a moment but then shakes his head. He looks genuinely regretful, which eases the tension Sherlock seems to be carrying in his stomach considerably. “Sorry, Sherlock, but I promised Martinsen I would cover his shift. His baby has been having colic for weeks and his wife is going completely mental at home. I really can't drop out now.”

  
  


Sherlock is about to make a half-hearted reply to the effect that it is hardly John's fault that his colleague is stupid enough to reproduce 8 but suddenly John is leaning over and pressing his mouth to Sherlock's.

  
  


His lips feel a little dry and a bit chapped but that doesn't stop Sherlock from sighing happily as he adjusts the angle of his head so they fit together better. 9 They kiss, slowly and comfortably and Sherlock is more than a little disappointed when John ends the kiss by pulling back slightly.

  
  


He smiles at Sherlock, all traces of lingering distress dissolving and his eyes turn soft and fond as he says: “Sorry, need to get ready.” He leans forward to plant one last, brief kiss on Sherlock's mouth and then he gets up and drops his tea cup into the sink.

  
  


Sherlock remains at the kitchen table, watching John disappear into the bathroom and then trying to concentrate on Mycroft's email, as he valiantly attempts to ignore the sounds of John getting ready for work. A part of him is disappointed and slightly peevish as he had been looking forward to spending a whole day in John's company, to rekindle their partnership. Another part of him is earnestly fighting the impulse to follow John into the bathroom, to reassure himself of John's affections after the previous night's turmoil. But that, he thinks, will only end in disaster. Once he gives in to the impulse, it is entirely possible he will end up following John around wherever he goes, like a love-sick puppy.

  
  


  
  


  
  


As John squeezes into the hopelessly crowded train and tries to survive the 10-minute ride to Westminster without accidentally groping or punching anyone, he is feeling more than a little under the weather. Part of it is the massive hangover but he realises he is also deeply unhappy about the idea of leaving Sherlock. He wants to stay around and bask in his presence a little more, wants to be able to reassure himself that this was no unusually realistic dream. Especially after last night's nightmare, which rattled him more than he likes to admit. He might have been a bit harsh to Sherlock, he thinks, but to relive that horrifying moment again only to then realise that it had all been a clever ruse, that his grief and despair had been carefully engineered to lend credibility to Sherlock's plan – _no, he tells himself sternly, you're not going to think about that right now. One thing at a time, John._ Still, to leave Sherlock alone with his first case since his return and with what John knows must be a host of unfamiliar and confusing feelings really doesn't sit right. He could kick himself. And then, of course, there is the fact that he has been texting and calling Greg since he first woke up this morning without getting a reply. Which, John is all too aware, is a reply in and of itself.

  
  


He gives it another try as he is walking across Westminster Bridge in a heavy October wind, the Thames looking grey and cold, but ends up with the voicemail again. He leaves another message.

  
  


Throughout the day he ends up checking his phone so often that one of the nurses starts to tease him about having acquired a new boyfriend. John blushes and mutters something about it being trouble with the old one, thank you very much. Which isn't entirely true, of course: Sherlock does keep sending him odd texts, which somehow makes the absence of any message from Greg even more worrisome.

  
  


_ How long does it take for a person to suffocate in a locked room? _ – SH

  
  


_Please tell me this isn't you we're talking about!_

  
  


_I am fine, John. The answer please?_ – SH

  
  


_Depends on the size of the room and the activity level. Are we talking airtight?_

  
  


_Yes. Space ca. 7 X 10 X 9 ft. Activity level high._ – SH

  
  


_About 17 hours._

  
  


_Thank you._ – SH

*

Date: Mon, 23 Feb 2015 08:00:40

From: johnhwatson@gstt.nhs.uk

To: glestrade@met.police.uk

Subject: I'm sorry

Greg,

I am sorry. I am so, so sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen. At least not this way.

Would you please answer your phone?

John

*

Date: Mon, 23 Feb 2015 08:07:30

From: glestrade@met.police.uk

To: johnhwatson@gstt.nhs.uk

Subject: Re: I'm sorry

Fuck you, John. Not only did you not tell me Sherlock was still alive, you didn't tell me because you were too busy screwing his brains out.

And now you are ending things? Just like that? Never took you for that much of a coward.

*

Date: Mon, 23 Feb 2015 09:00:55

From: johnhwatson@gstt.nhs.uk

To: glestrade@met.police.uk

Subject: Re: Re: I'm sorry

Oh God, no, I really, really do not want to end this. Please. I love you. I know I fucked up but I really don't want to lose you.

*

Date: Mon, 23 Feb 2015 09:02:06

From: johnhwatson@gstt.nhs.uk

To: glestrade@met.police.uk

Subject: Re: Re: I'm sorry

Also, if I recall correctly, you were the one who suggested an open relationship in the first place.

*

Date: Mon, 23 Feb 2015 11:23:40

From: glestrade@met.police.uk

To: johnhwatson@gstt.nhs.uk

Subject: Just don't

You miserable bastard. First you insist on monogamy and then you have the cheek to throw polyamory in my face? Seriously, fuck you, John. This is not how this works.

*

Date: Mon, 23 Feb 2015 12:18:50

From: johnhwatson@gstt.nhs.uk

To: glestrade@met.police.uk

Subject: Re: Just don't

I'm sorry, that was a stupid thing to say. I just don't know what to do. I don't know what to say. Except that I love you. I really do. Please, can we talk?

*

Date: Mon, 23 Feb 2015 14:54:21

From: glestrade@met.police.uk

To: johnhwatson@gstt.nhs.uk

Subject: Re: Re: Just don't

I love you too, you stupid tosser. I'll pick you up at your place. 7 PM.

Greg

*

When John gets home, he finds Sherlock smoking a cigarette at the open window. He wants to be offended at the smell or maybe worried about the renewal of Sherlock's addiction, but instead he simply stands in the doorway for a bit and looks his fill. He has imagined of this so often in the last three years that it is a bit of a shock to realise that this time coming home to a flat that is alive with Sherlock's presence is actually real.

“John!” Sherlock says, when he finally turns around, and he looks so happy to see John it almost makes John blush.

“Hey,” he says, “so, you didn't actually suffocate.”

“What? Oh, that.” Sherlock sounds so dismissive, John might as well be referring to the elections or something equally trifling and uninteresting. “No, I was never in any real danger. It was the butler who got shut in in the hidden cellar. Because of the crown.”

John frowns, feeling like he missing some important details. Before he can ask, however, Sherlock retrieves a picture from his suitjacket and holds it out to John, saying: “I'm already onto the next case and I expect we will have a number of very interesting visitors soon. You're going to stay, aren't you?”

“No, actually I – ” John starts as he finally gets a good look at the picture. Which seems to be showing a gem roughly the size of John's fist. “Is that a _diamond_?” He asks incredulously.

“What? Oh, yes, it seems to have gone missing but as soon as our visitors get here I should be able to clear that up.”

“Wow.” John is a little surprised to realise that he had actually forgotten what it feels like to be around Sherlock in the grip of a case. When he is like this, intent and excited, Sherlock is utterly beautiful and addictive, John thinks. But he shakes his head. “Sorry, Sherlock, but I am meeting with Greg tonight. We really, really need to talk.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says, the light in his eyes dimming a little. “Does that have to happen tonight?”

John just stares at him and then says incredulously: “Do I have to meet my partner tonight after I just cheated on him with you? Yeah, Sherlock, I really have to.”

“Ah,” Sherlock says and he suddenly sounds tense and unhappy, “yes. The cheating. You realise I wasn't aware –”

John cuts him off with a wince. It's more than a little unpleasant to be reminded that in this case, Sherlock had had more of a conscience than he himself. “I know, Sherlock,” he says tightly, “I know you weren't. That really doesn't make _me_ any less of a bastard, though. I just...I need to talk to Greg tonight and I really need to show him that I am not going to break any more promises. Do you understand?”

Sherlock nods unhappily and that is when they hear the doorbell ring.

 

 

When Greg pulls up across the street from 221B, he turns off the engine and sits still for a minute. He breathes deeply, trying to calm down the anxious thoughts buzzing around his head like a swarm of pissed-off bees. This has the potential to go spectacularly badly, but John's last email also makes him faintly hopeful. He huffs out a breath and opens the car door.

This time, he doesn't use his keys, ringing the bell instead. The door opens almost at once; John must have been waiting for him.

“Hey.”

“Hello, John.”

John can hardly look him in the eye, ducking his head and keeping a good foot of space between them, and Greg's heart sinks a little more. This is not looking good.

They quietly make their way over to the car but once they get in, Greg realises he has no idea where they're going. Should he take John to a pub? A restaurant? He doesn't really feel like eating and the idea of having this conversation in the middle of a crowded pub makes him grimace.

And then John heaves a deep sigh next to him and asks hesitantly: “Can we maybe go to your flat and talk there?”

Greg nods, relief flooding back in a little, and starts the car. It is a small gesture, tiny in comparison to what they need to discuss, but it makes him think that John maybe still considers Greg's flat his home as well. That there is something here worth salvaging.

There had been a while, after they had been together for about a year, when they had toyed with the idea of moving in together. But John was unwilling to leave Baker Street – he said because of Mrs. Hudson, Greg suspected because of memories – and Greg had never felt comfortable enough there to move in. The flat had always been distinctly John's and Sherlock's place and the idea of living there felt a little oppressive. In the end, they had decided to each stay in their own flats but usually John spends about as much time at Greg's as he does at home. Or at least that had been that case until now.

They don't talk during the drive, though Greg sometimes catches John looking at him out of the corner of his eye. They quietly climb up the stairs to his flat and when they walk in the front door, John still hasn't said a word. But then, as soon as the door closes behind them, he pulls Greg into a forceful kiss.

 

 

John tries to put all his love and confusion, all his remorse and tenderness into the kiss and so it's maybe not surprising that it's awkward and a bit off at first. But he needs this, God, how he needs this. He needs to know that there is a part of them that is still OK, that he is still allowed to do this, that Greg still wants him close like this.

It's intense and desperate, lips and teeth clashing, as he pulls Greg against him in the middle of the hallway, both of them swaying slightly from the impact. John can't stop himself from pulling Greg's bottom lip between his teeth, from trying to get closer, and Greg reciprocates after the first second of shocked surprise, his heart beating fast under the palm of John's hand.

But then Greg takes John's head in both hands and holds him steady as he pulls away. John keeps his eyes closed, panting, trying to lean forward, hoping Greg will resume the kiss.

When Greg doesn't move and just continues to hold him immobile without saying or doing anything, John is forced to open his eyes.

Greg is looking at him, his brown eyes dark with something John can't read and then he says: “I'm sorry John, but we can't. We _can't_ do this right now. Hell, you have to know how much I want to. But we really need to talk.”

Greg sounds both wrecked and very apologetic, and John can see desire and pain in the wrinkles around Greg's eyes and the crooked line of his mouth.

He nods, because, yes, that is why they are here, they need to talk and he needs to take responsibility, but then he leans forward and gives Greg one last kiss. It is quick and almost chaste, just a gentle press of their lips together but it says something John feels a need to say. He's afraid to state it out loud, afraid that he has lost that privilege, but the way Greg's mouth goes soft and pliant under his just for a moment makes him think that his message has come across regardless.

They head into the kitchen and John sits down at the table to watch Greg make both of them a cuppa. This, strangely enough, is where all their most important conversations have taken place; at the battered wooden table right in front of the French window leading out onto the tiny balcony, often like this, with John staring at Greg's back as he is making tea or cooking dinner. Greg likes to cook and he likes to talk while he does it, but now he doesn't say a thing until there is a steaming mug in front of each of them.

“So,” Greg finally says, “let's talk then. And we can start with you explaining to me why the hell you didn't think to call me when you realised Sherlock wasn't dead.”

John can hear the strain of tightly controlled anger and hurt in Greg's voice, can see the muscle at his jaw jumping. But Greg isn't yet wearing the shuttered expression John remembers from their worst fights, so he takes a deep breath and tries to man up.

“Yeah,” he says, staring down into his tea cup, “you're right, that was a shitty thing to do. I should have called you. But...” He waves one hand around helplessly. “It was a bit of a shock. Hell, I fainted, would you believe that?” He barks a laugh that sounds forced even to his own ears and looks up.

Greg is regarding him, still waiting, but his features have relaxed a little and John thinks he sees a hint of recognition there. If anybody can understand this mix of shock and wonder, it's probably Greg.

John continues, trying to explain what he can't excuse. “When I came home he was asleep on the sofa. I thought – Jesus, Greg, I really thought I was seeing things at first but then he talked and – ” he can't help smiling at the memory because this, this is a fucking miracle. Who knew the world still did miracles? “He was real. I just...” He shakes his head, failing to find words for how overwhelming it had all been. How scary. How utterly brilliant.

Greg is looking at him with mingled fondness and exasperation now, a wry smile twisting his mouth.

“Sherlock, huh?” Greg says after a moment. “Only one who can pull that off, I reckon.”

They both shake their heads a little, sharing the strangeness of this situation, the relief and disbelief still arresting both of them.

But then Greg takes a deep breath and says: “And then you shagged.”

John flinches and can feel himself blush. _Jesus, John, you are such a fuck-up._ He nods, his throat suddenly dry. “How'd you know?”

Greg snorts, leaning back in his chair. “I'm not actually stupid, you know? It was bloody fucking obvious.” He sounds both annoyed and a little tired. And....unsurprised. Like this was something he had expected John to do, despite his hopes to the contrary.

The realisation is sharp and stinging and he automatically reaches out to grasp Greg's hand where it is laying on the table top, a frown creasing his forehead. “I...yes. We had sex. It was... Well. Um.” He is stuck, unable to explain the tide of euphoria that had swept over him once he had realised that Sherlock was alive. That Sherlock was, in fact, just as in love with John as John had always been with him.

Greg laughs tiredly. “For God's sake, John, it's not like I'm surprised. I suppose, if you'd asked me what I thought you'd be most likely to do if Sherlock came back – well. This'd probably've been on top of the list, yeah?” There is more sarcam and tiredness in Greg's voice than anger, but John thinks he can detect hurt and quiet disappointment, too, and that is almost worse.

He tightens his fingers around Greg's hand and says the only thing he can say. “But that doesn't make it OK, does it. I'm sorry, Greg.”

Greg takes a deep breath and nods at him, accepting John's apology and stroking his thumb over the back of John's hand.

They sit there in tense stillness for a while until Greg finally asks in a voice that is far too low and hesitant for John's comfort: “Well, that's that. And now? Is this you breaking up with me, then?” _Now that you can have Sherlock_ Greg doesn't say, but it hangs between them, as clearly as if he had.

John can feel his eyes widen in horror. That is the last thing he wants and he shakes his head vehemently. “ _God_ , no. I do _not_ want to lose you, Greg. Jesus. I don't want to end this. Not if –” he gulps, suddenly terrified of the answer he might get, “not if you still want me?”

Greg groans and disentangles their fingers so he can hide his face in his hands. “Bloody hell, John,” he says, “what're you asking me here?” He lowers his hands and looks at John directly. “Do I want to end this? No, I fucking well don't. But you don't think I'll be able to forget about this, to just wipe it under the rug, do you? Because that really doesn't work.”

John's breath rushes out of him like an avalanche and he feels light-headed with relief, as he says: “No, I'm not gonna ask you to to do that. I'm not... I'm not asking you to _forget_. But...” He closes his eyes and bites his lips for a moment and then asks: “Considering I've been an inconsiderate arse and cheated on you with Sherlock, do you think you can forgive me?”

The tired smile is back on Greg's face and he considers things for a bit while John sits as still as he can, every muscle tensed for rejection. Finally Greg says: “Yeah, I forgive you. I'll just need some time to think about this. And I need you to think about this, too. Because I don't think we can go back to how things were before, do you?”

John nods and then shakes his head. “No. I couldn't. I mean, this wasn't just... I don't usually... I've never cheated on anyone in my _life_ , you know? But Sherlock...”

Greg laughs: “It's not strictly speaking news to me that you're in love with Sherlock, John. We've talked about it. And I know it sounds strange, but that is not actually what I'm angry about.” When John looks confused, he elaborates: “The sex. Hell, John, if you'd _told_ me that Sherlock was back, if you'd _asked_ me – ” he shakes his head. “Let me make this very clear, OK? I do _not_ have a problem with you sleeping with other people.”

John flinches a little at that. They have talked about this more than once but it still sounds a bit dismissive to him, whenever Greg says it. _John, you fucking hypocrite_ , he scolds himself.

Greg continues: “What I really, really don't like, though, what makes me feel like shit, is if you keep me out of the loop like this. If you want to shag somebody, you fucking well ask, John. And when a mutual friend of ours returns from the dead, I expect you to have enough decency to give me a bloody call. Are we clear?”

John swallows and nods. He has to admit that he doesn't fully understand Greg's position when it comes to the exclusivity of relationships but he knows generosity when he sees it. And not calling Greg had been damn well unforgivable.

“Right,” Greg says, “Now the question is what we're going to do about this.” He gestures at John and himself, the kitchen table they are sitting at, the life they've made together. “How is this going to work, John? And –” Greg's face twists, part wince and part amused snort. “We really, really need to talk about this with Sherlock.”

“Yeah,” John agrees, because now that he thinks about it, it seems rather obvious. “We should probably have a conversation, all three of us together. Because I really...” He looks up at Greg, hoping that his face can maybe convey the message more eloquently than his clumsy words. “Just so you know, I do love you. That hasn't changed. You're _important_ to me. But he is, too.” He shrugs helplessly. “I don't think I can give either of you up, you know?”

“Yeah.” Greg says and he actually sounds as if he understands. Greg is a fucking miracle, John thinks, not for the first time.

Then Greg asks: “John, have you talked to Sherlock about this at all? Because it seems to me, what you want is a sort of V-relationship with you in the middle, yeah?”

John nods. He has never heard the term before but it seems an accurate enough description for what he has been imagining in his more hopeful moments.

“Mhm.” Greg scrunches his face up the way he does when he is unsure about something. “I'm not being devil's advocate here, but that sort of arrangement ain't easy. It needs a fair bit of planning. And everybody sticking to what we've agreed to. And Sherlock – weeell. Sherlock is not great at boundaries and he is _shite_ at sharing, we both know that.”

John nods. “I know. But honestly, do you have a better idea? Because I sure as hell don't. I just...” John can feel his throat constricting painfully, his heart beating faster with incipient panic. “I just really can't imagine losing either one of you, OK?”

Something of the raw emotion he feels must be showing because Greg's voice is soft and sympathetic as he says: “I know, John, I've actually been there, OK? And we'll give it a try.”

For the second time tonight relief pushes John's breath out of his throat in a painful rush. “OK,” he nods. “OK. We'll give it a try.”

Greg looks at him fondly, his hand still warm and steady in John's. It's something they used to do a lot when their relationship was still new and surprising to both of them, holding hands at the table. Now, however Greg is holding unnaturally still and there is a sadness in his voice as he says: “I just really wish we could've had this conversation _before_ you went and shagged him behind my back.”

John flinches at that, his eyes flitting away and fastening on the wall behind Greg's head as he swallows roughly, his hand tightening in Greg's. He feels ashamed and dreadfully guilty. There are a thousand excuses on his tongue – he hadn't meant to, it was a special situation, none of them could have foreseen this – but he can't bring himself to say them because none of them matter. They had had an agreement, an agreement that John had insisted on, even, that sexual contact with others was off-limits. There are no two ways about this: He has cheated on Greg and there isn't really a way to make that go away.

“Yeah,” he finally says, his voice tight with regret, “me too. I've never done this before and...yeah. I'm sorry.” He knows he keeps repeating himself but really, what else is there to do?

 

 

1The give of the mattress tells him more than he wants to know about the state of John and Lestrade's sex life.

2Their bathroom shows the signs of regularly being occupied by two men, Lestrade's worn toothbrush and a half-finished tube of his shaving cream attesting to the fact that he is much more than an occasional guest in this flat.

3Lager, Sherlock registers, wrinkling is nose. He prefers wine himself.

4The noticeably changed traffic pattern reminds him that he needs to spend some time outside to update his mental map of London

5Occurs in less than 1% of the adult population, though with a higher frequency in those suffering from PTSD or anxiety disorders.

6The little creases between his eyebrows multiply in a way they never do when John is just faking regret. Sherlock wonders if John is aware of that?

7Flattery has worked in the past, mostly, Sherlock suspects, because he employs it so rarely.

8Half-hearted because John would not be John if he didn't care about the people around him to a worrying degree and Sherlock much prefers John being John.

9The stiffness of John's neck attesting to the paperwork and physical strain of his current job.


	7. Not words but meanings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things begin to come together.

As it turns out, a lot.

 

Greg has just agreed to go back with John this very evening, when he gets a text from Sherlock that is highly cryptic but essentially states that he has a giant diamond and two thieves he would like Greg to pick up from Baker Street. _Right_ , Greg thinks, _that settles it_.

 

He'd been thinking, at first, that it would be better if John had the chance to talk to Sherlock on his own, but John seems strangely reluctant to do so. Greg thinks it is partly because John correctly guesses that this will not be an easy conversation to have, but he is also pretty sure that John right now simply wants to stick close. He vividly remembers that feeling, the crushing guilt and the terror of feeling like you've ruined what you value most in life. The desperate need to reassure yourself that you still have it. He has been young and stupid.

 

That is partly, he thinks, why it wasn't so much the sex that stung him. Over the last 24 hours he has tried to feel angry about it but mostly failed. When he imagines Sherlock and John together, all he feels is a tender kind of affection at the idea that two people who matter to him so much have found each other. What raises his hackles, however, is the feeling of being out of the loop, of being _forgotten_. That, he doesn't like at all.

 

 

 

When they get to Baker Street, the police car Greg has ordered up is already waiting for them. In the living room, they find two men who are wearing the typical look of people who have grievously underestimated Sherlock's knowledge of martial arts – bloody and surprised as hell –, a diamond of the size of a baby's head, and a very triumphant Sherlock.

 

“Right,” Greg says as soon as he steps through the door, “Cooper, arrest these guys. Sherlock? What the hell happened here?”

 

Sherlock looks up from where he has been examining the stone under a microscope. He is looking so pleased Greg wonders for a brief moment if he is high. But no, this is just Sherlock after a case as he explains: “These two idiots here stole the Mazarin stone and – ”

 

“Hang on, they stole _what_?” Greg says at the same time that John, who is standing right next to him, exclaims: “The Mazarin stone? Isn't that one of the _crown jewels_?”

 

“Precisely,” Sherlock says smugly. “Mr Merton and Count Sylvius over here were smart enough to steal the stone but unfortunately not smart enough to distinguish between me and a dummy made from paper mache. More's the pity.”

 

“Of course,” Greg says, “paper mache, right,” and he can feel the familiar twinges of a Sherlock-induced headache. “OK,” he decides, “Cooper, cuff them and take them back to the Yard. And take that bloody thing with you and see to it that you lock it up tight, yeah?”

 

“Right you are, sir,” Cooper replies cheerfully and hustles the two men out the door, returning moments later for the stone which Sherlock reluctantly gives up.

 

As Cooper leaves for a second time, Greg turns to Sherlock. “And you,” he says, stabbing his finger at Sherlock, “will turn up tomorrow and give a proper statement. Understood?”

 

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock says, waving airily, “of course.”

 

“Sherlock,” John says, his voice wavering between irritation and concern, “are these the blokes you were talking about? Why the hell didn't you tell me they were going to _attack_ you?”

 

At that, Sherlock's expression turns mulish. “If you recall, John, I did state several times that we would receive interesting visitors tonight but you – ”

 

“Bloody hell, Sherlock, since when does interesting mean the same as dangerous?” John is perilously close to yelling now and Greg feels it is his duty to step in.

 

“Right, calm down you two,” he says as he takes a step forward, putting himself literally between them. “We're all gonna sit down and have a nice cuppa, yeah?”

 

“Fine,” Sherlock huffs and stalks into the kitchen where he sits down at the table, obviously waiting for John to make the tea. John rolls his eyes but dutifully pulls out three mugs, adding three splashes of milk for himself and two for Sherlock and Greg before dropping in the tea bags.

 

Greg shakes his head as he sits down. He thinks, not for the first time, that he would tell Sherlock to make his own goddamn tea if he were in John's place. But he isn't and so he keeps his gob shut.

 

When they are finally all sitting at the table, Greg is surprised that it is Sherlock who starts them off by asking John: “I assume you brought Lestrade back here so we could have a conversation about....the state of our relationship? As it were?” He is trying to sound nonchalant but Greg knows an agitated Sherlock when he sees one.

 

John nods, looking a little nervous himself. “Yeah, I think it's a good idea if we all sit down together and talk. Bring everything out in the open.”

 

“Of course,” Sherlock says calmly, but Greg recognises the look on his face from when they first started working together: It's Sherlock's “I'm shit-scared but I'd rather die than admit it” expression. John must recognise it, too, because he moves a little closer to Sherlock and grabs his hand firmly in one of his own. _He's a handholder, is John_ , Greg thinks and can't help but smile.

 

Then he realises they are both staring at him and rolls his eyes. Why does he suddenly feel like the only adult in the room? It's not like he has a relationship record to be proud of. Nevertheless, he clears his throat. Best to start out by establishing some background here.

 

“So, strictly speaking, John and I used to be monogamous. Until yesterday,” he explains.

 

John suddenly seems to have developed a keen interest in the table top and Sherlock is holding John's hand tight enough to bruise, but Greg doesn't let that stop him. “But it turns out, you aren't dead.” He nods at Sherlock who looks him in the eye determinedly, though the shit-scared expression is still quite visible.

 

At this point, John seems to realise that it maybe isn't quite fair to make Greg do all the talking and jumps in: “Which was when I fucked up. Sherlock, I've known I love you for a while. But I didn't think...” John falters for a moment and suddenly there is a look of grief on his face that goes straight to Greg's heart. “I really thought you were dead,” he says, looking at Sherlock intently. For a moment, Sherlock and John are staring at each other with such intensity that Greg can almost hear the crackle. “I am sorry,” Sherlock says, his voice as sincere as Greg has ever heard it.

 

John nods and then looks over at Greg. John, Greg thinks, looks a little rough around the edges, as if his face can't quite hold all the emotions he currently has. “And I love you, too,” John tells him. It isn't the first time he has said it, not even the first time this evening, but somehow hearing him say it in front of Sherlock makes a weight lift from Greg's heart that he hadn't known he was carrying.

 

Greg smiles and reaches out for John's other hand. It is a bit silly, three grown men sitting at a table holding hands but what the hell. It's not like anyone can see them.

 

When he looks over at Sherlock, he sees relief there as well as a touch of jealousy. The jealousy, he had expected, but the relief takes him by surprise and makes him feel more hopeful. This, he knows, will only work if all three of them are equally committed to each aspect of this relationship. Knowing that Sherlock is on board with him and John eases his mind considerably.

 

“So,” Sherlock finally asks, “how are you envisioning this?”

 

Greg shrugs. “There is no set recipe for how you do this, Sherlock. The bottom line is that we are all OK with the fact that both you and I will be in a relationship with John. Everything else is...logistics.”

 

Sherlock nods. “I will need John with me for cases, of course, and I expect you'll want him on the weekends and – ”

 

“Right. Here,” John cuts in, glaring at Sherlock narrowly. “Could you not talk about me like I am a carshare or something?”

 

Greg has to quickly fix his gaze on the fridge for a bit so he doesn't suddenly laugh out loud.

 

“Right,” John says, “everybody get their schedules. I think we'll have to do this on a week by week basis.”

 

It takes a while but in the end they figure out a plan for the coming week that divides John's time fairly equally between Greg's flat and Baker Street. At Greg's insistence it also includes some alone time for John, which Greg knows John will need more than he thinks right now.

 

“So,” Greg says at some point, partly because he wants this and partly because...well, because he is testing John. And Sherlock as well, to be honest. “I really want one night a week, John.”

 

“Sure,” John is frowning. “Right now we have several, are you saying – ”

 

“What I mean,” Greg says very seriously, “is one night a week where there will be no phonecalls, no texts. And no excuses. Especially no excuses.”

 

Sherlock looks unhappy at the idea but John seems to understand what Greg is trying to say.

 

“Yes,” he says earnestly, “yes, that is a good idea. One night a week where it is just...us. No excuses.” He nods.

 

Greg holds his gaze for a moment, trying to make sure that John gets it, that he really understands just how important this is. “Absolutely no excuses. I don't care if the government is about to be overthrown, yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” John nods, “I get it.”

 

Sherlock huffs impatiently at that and turns to John: “That hardly sounds practical! You know very well that our cases can be unpredictable and that I might require your help on a night when you're with him.” He gestures at Greg with his chin.

 

“Yes, well,” John says calmly but firmly, “in that case you will just have to make do without me. Call in Mycroft or something. You did _survive_ without me for a long time, after all.”

 

Sherlock glares but for once John shows absolutely no sign of backing down in the face of one of Sherlock's demands. Which feels brilliant, Greg thinks. Seeing John stand up to Sherlock for his sake, now there is a kink he didn't know he had.

 

“Fine,” Sherlock finally sighs, “you can have your 'date night'. But if one of our cases should put me in serious danger on any other night – ”

 

And Greg, because he is suddenly feeling generous, nods. “If you really, really need John on any other night, we can be flexible, OK? Hell, we'll have to be flexible anyway. It's not like you're the only one who gets surprised by cases.”

 

“Or night shifts,” John says a little gloomily.

 

“Right,” Greg agrees. “Well,” he says, “that's that then, yeah?” He leans back exhaustedly and looks at his planner which is now colour coded to within an inch of its life. Sherlock has long since grabbed John's computer and is formatting spreadsheets that he is threatening to put up on Googledocs. Greg hates the internet sometimes.

 

John looks up from where he has been hanging over Sherlock's shoulder making sure that all-important appointments – _Yes, Sherlock, having dinner with Mrs Hudson is important_ – make it in. “I think so,” he agrees. “Sherlock?”

 

“Hm, what? Oh, yes. Certainly. That seems to cover it.”

 

“Right, I think I'll be off, then,” Greg announces as a giant yawn almost unhinges his jaw. “I've got work tomorrow.”

 

“Yeah,” John says and comes around the table, “come on, I'll walk you out.”

 

They loiter in the hallway for a bit, kissing and groping each other without heat but with a lot of affection. Then, John buries his face in Greg's chest and murmurs: “I am the luckiest bastard alive.”

 

Greg snorts and plays with the ends of John's hair a little, resting his hand on the back of John's neck. “You say that now, but trust me, being in the middle of a relationship like that can be exhausting.”

 

“Mhm,” John agrees, “if you say so.” But Greg thinks that John probably doesn't believe a word he is saying. That is alright, though, time will teach him.

  
  


  
  


  
  


In some ways their arrangement works surprisingly well.

There are days like today, when Greg steps into the living room at 221B after a case he wishes he had never started investigating. As soon as he closes the door behind him the familiar sounds and smells, the cluttered but comfortable atmosphere settle around him like blessed insulation. Ever since Sherlock has returned, he has become increasingly comfortable here. Maybe it's time to rethink his decision of holding on to his own flat.

 

John takes one look at him from where he is sitting in his armchair and then simply puts down his laptop, gets up and pulls Greg into a tight hug. Greg's breath sighs out of him and he can feel some of the tension leave his muscles as he puts his head down on John's shoulder and simply holds on.

 

“Is it over?” John asks and Greg nods against his neck, trying to put the last seven days behind himself. This has been far from the most gruesome case he has ever come across, but it had been harrowing to realise that it had been the oldest brother who had been killing off his younger siblings out of misguided jealousy and a pathological lack of empathy. Greg can still see the white, horrified faces of the parents in front of him and shudders slightly.

 

At that moment the door behind him bangs open and Sherlock strides in, his forceful and quick steps unmistakable.

 

Greg tenses a little. Sherlock, he knows, does not always take well to seeing John and Greg in what he calls 'embarrassingly public displays of affection'. It is partly insecurity, Greg thinks, which is why they usually make an effort to simply act like three friends when all of them are together. This time, however, the scathing remark Greg is expecting doesn't come.

 

John is reassuringly stable and silent against him and Greg gives him one last squeeze before stepping back and looking up.

 

Sherlock is standing in the kitchen door, regarding him with just a hint of sympathy and then abruptly turns around, walks over to the counter and puts the kettle on.

 

John raises an eyebrow at Greg. This is almost entirely unprecedented, Greg has only ever seen Sherlock make tea _once_ in all the time he has known the man.

 

Now, however, as he and John sit down at the cluttered kitchen table, Sherlock quickly and efficiently assembles a tea set and pours boiling water over the loose leaves.

 

This time it is Greg who raises an eyebrow at John. Loose-leaf tea is only for special occasions, most days they make do with PG Tips like normal people. John just shrugs.

 

After what feels like about three minutes, even though Greg is sure that it is really some sort of ridiculously precise amount of time, like 2:50:55 minutes, Sherlock puts a cup and saucer bearing an Isle of Britain pattern in front of each of them. He then pours them two fragrant, steaming cups of very posh tea and puts a matching sugar bowl and milk jug on the table. Greg is starting to freak out a little.

 

“Do I really look that bad?” he asks and realises to his chagrin that his voice sounds far rougher than it should.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says simply. He gives Greg a very awkward hug from behind, kisses John on the cheek and then walks through the door leading to his bedroom.

 

“Well,” John remarks after the door has clicked shut, “that was weird.”

 

“You can say that again,” Greg says, staring doubtfully at the cup in front of him. “And what the hell is this? The family china?”

 

John snorts. “Don't ask me, it's not like he's ever made _me_ tea.”

 

Greg shakes his head. “If this was anyone other than Sherlock I would assume he _cares_.” he says doubtfully.

 

John rolls his eyes at that. “You _know_ he cares about you,” he says, “don't tell me you can't see it.” There is a touch of exasperation in his voice but when he looks at John, John is smiling slightly as well.

 

Greg shrugs. “Yeah, I know. But he doesn't usually _show_ it. Not like this, anyway.” No, Sherlock's displays of affection are usually a lot less straight forward and a lot more weird.

 

Now, however, they drink their tea, which is surprisingly good, and Greg tells John the whole terrible story of the case from start to finish. It's not like John won't be able to read it in the paper tomorrow anyway and for some reason Greg always feels better after he has shared the worst of his cases with John. John simply listens and looks sympathetic, which is something he excels at.

 

Afterwards they sit there and talk about other things for a bit: How Tottenham is doing, why Mrs Hudson felt the need to go for a holiday on Menorca of all places, the way Sherlock's latest experiment had turned parts of the wallpaper a violent pink. Greg can feel normality and domesticity settle over himself like a blanket, calming his nerves and unkinking his muscles, making him slightly drowsy.

 

It is all too soon that John looks at the clock and swears and then quickly begins to gather up his things. “I'm sorry, Greg, but I've got to go. I've got a night shift today, Murdoch is home sick.”

 

“Right,” Greg says, unable to suppress the disappointment welling up in him. He knows what he should be doing, would be doing on any normal day: Go home, take a shower, go to bed. The thing is, he doesn't really want to leave yet. Even with John running around like a headless chicken, the way he always does minutes before he leaves for work, this feels like the calmest and most relaxing place Greg has been all week.

 

When John is finally ready, he bends down for a quick kiss and then says with forced casualness: “You could stay here if you wanted to, you know.” With that he is out the door, leaving Greg to contemplate the offer. Outside of cases he and Sherlock don't really spend much time together unless John is there as well and he has a feeling that John would like for that to change. Which, he has to admit, would probably be a good idea. He shrugs. Right now it feels good to simply stay here and so he will.

 

He putters around the kitchen, trying to scrounge up something edible without traumatising himself too much by discovering human remains in unexpected places. He is smiling slightly to himself as he roots through the cupboards. It's a little ridiculous just how much John and Sherlock resemble the average undergrad in their eating habits, only with more take-away and less pot noodles. If he should ever move in here, he will have to spend some time laying in some basic supplies for home cooking. He shakes his head and finally unearths a can of tomato soup that nobody seems to have tampered with.

 

He heats it up and, on an impulse, takes out two bowls when it's ready. He knocks on Sherlock's door and then sticks his head in.

 

Sherlock is propped up against the headboard of his bed, reading what looks like the Encyclopedia Britannica in a single book, but is probably about something far more specific like a million ways of killing a man with your toenails or something. Only Sherlock, he thinks, can look elegant when sprawling on an unmade bed, his tight trousers clinging to his hips in a way that Greg has spent over ten years trying not to notice.

 

“You hungry?” he asks when Sherlock looks up. “I made some soup.” Sherlock looks contemplative for a second, as if he has to check in with his body to figure out whether or not it needs food, and then nods and gets up.

 

They settle down in front of the telly with their bowls and because the universe recognises that Greg deserves a break, there is new Doctor Who on. Sherlock raises his eyebrows sarcastically at Greg's choice but doesn't complain.

 

Greg is half afraid Sherlock will predict the plot or something – he hates being spoiled – but instead, halfway into the episode he starts deducing the film crew's love life from the placement of props and the state of the costumes. Soon, Greg finds himself laughing so hard his stomach aches. It's a little weird because he doesn't think he has ever seen Sherlock use his observational powers to amuse anyone but himself before. But it feels _good_ to be laughing like this, hell, does it ever. Especially since Sherlock occasionally joins him with one of his giggles. He wonders if Sherlock realises that he sounds downright endearing when he laughs like that, but he isn't suicidal enough to ask. For all his prissiness about his appearance and despite the porcelain pallor of his skin, Sherlock really takes offense if he thinks his masculinity is being challenged.

 

Afterwards they watch some sort of history documentary about the Outer Hebrides and Sherlock switches to snide comments about the historical inaccuracy of most of the claims. Greg finds it surprisingly soothing and after a while he draws his feet up and leans his head back against the couch, feeling himself drift in and out of awareness.

 

 

 

Sherlock continues his acerbic commentary on the insufferably dilettantish documentary until he notices that Lestrade's eyes are actually falling shut, his respiratory minute volume decreasing by the customary 13% percent as he slips into stage II sleep.1

 

Then, while the telly drones on about outdated theories regarding the “Celtic” people who supposedly inhabited the islands during the Iron Age2, Sherlock fetches his book and after a brief hesitation, settles a blanket over Lestrade.

 

He returns to his spot on the couch. For some reason it doesn't feel quite right to leave Lestrade alone in the living room, not even with the telly on for company.

 

He contemplates his own emotions for a moment, unsure of where this sudden protective impulse comes from, but finally settles on the fact that John obviously left Greg here for Sherlock to take care of. John, he knows, has not yet entirely forgiven Sherlock for leaving him in the dark about his plans, despite all the logical, rational explanation Sherlock has given for his behaviour3. There is a steady current of tension running through their interactions, which is disconcerting in its potential disruptiveness. It spends most of its time hidden from view but will erupt every now and then, in a pattern Sherlock has not been able to crack and which worries him deeply. As a result, right now, Sherlock is anxious to prove his own reliability to John. If John leaves a visibly distraught Lestrade in his care, Sherlock will stand guard until John gets back, even if his time could be much more productively spend on the analysis of the urine samples in the fridge. This decision, he tells himself, has nothing whatsoever to do with the strained and brittle look Lestrade is currently wearing, even in his sleep.

 

Sherlock sometimes feels somewhat out of his depth in what the books have taught him is their 'polyfidelious V-relationship'. It had been a disappointment to realise that the number of books which dealt with polyamory is astoundingly small and his usual approach of studying relevant examples from pop-culture is severely hindered by the fact that pop-culture on the whole seems to completely ignore arrangements like theirs.4

 

However, despite the recurring tension with John, this is the most happy Sherlock has ever been. Being home with John is utterly blissful and the realisation that they love each other will still sometimes hit him in the middle of one of his experiments, making him smile for hours. They have taken time to really learn one another's bodies and Sherlock thinks that by now he would probably be able to recognise John from the tip of any of his ten fingers.

 

The greed for every inch of John's body, the frenzied lovemaking from the beginning has by now given way to more casual but no less enjoyable experimentation. The wonder, however, that he gets to touch whenever he wants to, that John apparently never tires of touching Sherlock in return, does not cease.

 

Sherlock has had sex before, of course, and he has been in love. But he has never actually been lucky enough to experience these things in combination and he is stunned by how _different_ it feels. There was a night, a week ago, when they made love without ever closing their eyes or averting their gaze. Sherlock can still feel a shiver run down his spine at the thought of it. It had been hypnotic and intense, everything else ceasing to exist, until there was nothing in the world but John's skin against his body, John's mouth on his, John's eyes staring into his. Even John, he thinks, had been a little shaken by how powerful it had been.

 

At the same time, there seems to be a childish and unruly part of himself that resents every evening he has to spend alone because John is at Lestrade's flat, every case on which John is absent. It is more than a little annoying because at the same time and yet in clear contradiction to this, the idea of manipulating John into giving up his relationship with Lestrade has lost nothing of its foulness. Sherlock has, of course, considered it more than once, telling himself that now that he is back, John no longer needs Lestrade. That it would simplify their life a lot if the schedules and _emotions_ of three people didn't have to be taken into consideration. But the idea still makes his cheeks burn and his stomach knot uncomfortably.

 

He looks over at Lestrade who is still sleeping peacefully next to him and he has to admit grudgingly that he quite likes having him here. It is a little reminiscent of the time he had stayed with Lestrade and his wife when the flat he had been living in at the time had finally become completely uninhabitable. It is strange, Sherlock thinks, that despite the fact that there are a number of parallels here, there is none of the tension he associates with being in love with a man who also loves somebody else. But then, he and Annie had never got on in the first place.

 

Finally, Sherlock tunes the documentary out and resumes his reading. After a while, Greg shifts sideways a little so that his head is resting against Sherlock's shoulder.

 

Sherlock gives him an annoyed glance – the book is heavy after all, and Lestrade's head on his shoulder is impeding his range of movement – but, unsurprisingly that has little to no impact on the sleeping man.

 

Sherlock carefully twitches his shoulder and then reaches over to try and shift Lestrade into a less inconvenient position but it turns out that a sleeping person's head is hard to move around. In the end, Lestrade makes a non-verbal noise that sounds a lot like protest and then he slowly topples forward until his head comes to rest on Sherlock's thigh.

 

Sherlock blinks down at the unconscious form in his lap for a moment, shrugs, carefully rests the rather heavy book on Lestrade's skull, and tries to find his place again.

 

When John comes home around seven5, he takes one look at them and then he smiles at Sherlock in a way that is both surprised and genuinely happy.

 

“Hey,” John says very quietly as he stoops and kisses Sherlock lightly on the mouth, “what happened here?”

 

John's expression causes a strange kind of warmth to spread in his chest. He finds himself smiling back at John, as he always does these days, and shrugs. “He fell asleep.”

 

“On you?” John sounds a little incredulous and a lot amused. “And you _let_ him?”

 

Sherlock can feel himself blush even though he is not entirely certain why. “He turned out to be difficult to move.”

 

“Uh-huh,” John says and Sherlock is not sure what he is implying. As long as it makes John look this happy, however, he also doesn't really mind.

 

“So,” John says, eyes still crinkled in amusement, “should I just leave you two here? Or do you want help moving him?”

 

Sherlock glares at him and tries to sound as haughty as he can as he says: “Of course I want you to move him, my _leg_ has fallen asleep.”

 

For a moment, John looks as if he might actually start laughing but then he gets his face back under control and steps over to Sherlock's other side. Together, they manage to lift Lestrade's head enough that Sherlock can worm his way out from under him, his leg complaining with pins and needles. As soon as he has freed himself completely, Sherlock dashes to the loo, followed by a quietly sniggering John.

 

“You had to _pee_ and you didn't shift him?” John's tone is full of gleeful disbelief as he steps into the bathroom and grabs his toothbrush. “You are cute, you know that?”

 

Sherlock tries to glare but it is hard to glare convincingly while pissing like a racehorse. “I,” he grits out, “am not cute. Your boyfriend, on the other hand, might be narcoleptic.”

 

John coughs a little as some of the toothpaste goes down the wrong way.

 

In the end, they both curl up in Sherlock's bed, as they usually do when John comes home from a night shift and Sherlock has nothing pressing to do. Sherlock doesn't necessarily sleep but he likes lying next to John anyway. John is restful to be around when he is asleep and Sherlock finds that he does his best thinking these days with John breathing deeply next to him.

 

Just before John slips into sleep, his eye-lids already drooping, he murmurs: “That was nice of you.”

 

“Mhm?” Sherlock asks.

 

John yawns. “Looking after Greg like that. I think he really needed it. Made me happy.”

 

And with that, he is asleep.

 

 

 

1He idly notes that years of smoking have left their mark on Lestrade's respiratory system, making him snore ever so slightly.

2Absurd idea. Not only were the North Atlantic Celts as a cohesive cultural group mostly an invention of 18th century nationalists, there was also almost no evidence that there had ever been a widespread invasion of the British Isles by outside groups.

3Unfortunately John's grasp of the Bayesian equations was rather weak and easily overshadowed by heuristics and flashbulb memories.

4Sherlock thinks he should write up an article about the appalling wrongness of most of the evolutionary psychology articles he has read on the subject of intimacy and jealousy by now. It is horrifying to realise how often researchers seem to construct their studies to faithfully reflect their own biases.

5Easy shift, no major casualties, shared a coffee break with one of the janitors who is developing early onset Parkinson's.


	8. Though you can render no reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _God, he must be mental to start doing this again. It had been so _nice_ when John had shown up and taken over all of Greg's “explaining emotions to Sherlock”-duties. But it seems that, this time, John is the problem._
> 
>  
> 
> John and Sherlock fight, Greg tries to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hovering footnotes will come next time. Sorry, guys!

There are other days, however.

 

Days like today, when Sherlock comes home late at night and settles himself on the couch, still wrapped in his coat. It is good to be home, he thinks, as he arranges himself on the sofa. He hums contentedly as the warmth of the room seeps into limbs that are still stiff from the hour he spent crouched behind a chimney, waiting for his suspect to re-appear.1 As soon as he is warm enough, he will join John upstairs but John complains loudly when Sherlock slips into his bed with what he calls his “ice-block feet”.

 

Coming home to a flat that shows clear traces of John's presence2 and recent movements is remarkably different from coming home to whatever bedsit he had been able to scrounge up on the run. He can tell that John came home, heated up some left-over curry, sat at the kitchen table to eat it, then moved to the couch for a cup of tea3 while he watched the evening news4.

 

Now that he is back, he can feel parts of himself settle like tea leaves slowly collecting at the bottom of a cup, as he is relearning the rhythms of trust and safety that have always characterised his relationship with John. There are still moments when the hyper-vigilance resurfaces that kept him alive over the last three years, and there are certain things he might never do again: sit with his back to a door or window5, leave the flat unarmed, trust strangers.

 

More and more, however, he is getting used to being back, to being able to finally, finally sleep as much as he wants to. To the miracle of loving John, to arguing about cases with Lestrade and to enduring Mrs Hudson's fussing. Sherlock's eyes are closed and he knows he is wearing a stupid little smile as he sinks further into the couch, but the flat is dark and nobody can see him.

 

Then there is the sound of John's bedroom door opening upstairs and the creak of the steps as John comes down, probably to get himself a glass of water.6 He can hear John shuffling into the living room and then there is a sharp intake of breath and suddenly the ceiling lights are flooding the room with brightness.

 

Startled, Sherlock sits up and opens his eyes, but it takes them a bit to adapt to the sudden change in lighting conditions, so that he is regarding John through the slits of his almost-closed lids.

 

“What the fuck, Sherlock! You left without me, you didn't answer your phone and now you come back and don't even think to let me know you're still alive?” John sounds angry and confused and his face has gone from sleepily unfocused to hard. This is decidedly not the reaction Sherlock had been hoping for.

 

“You were asleep,” Sherlock explains. “I didn't want to wake you up. And I was...defrosting before joining you.”

 

“Oh, for the love of – ” John cuts himself off with an angry snap of his mouth, turns and walks into the kitchen.

 

Sherlock gets up and follows John into the next room, where he is rooting around in the refrigerator. Sherlock is feeling adrift, as he so often does where their relationship is concerned.

 

John gets a bottle of water from the fridge and sets it down on the counter with an audible _clonk._ When he turns to face Sherlock his lips are thin and he is glaring angrily.7

 

“Do. Not. Fucking. Do. This!” He snarls, each word punctuated by a stab of his finger.

 

Sherlock is confused, which both scares him and makes him angry. What precisely has he done that infuriates John so?

 

“John,” he says hesitantly, stepping forward into the kitchen, trying to explain, “it was a simple observation. The risk of danger was minimal, I – ”

 

“No!” John almost yells. “You do not get to do this! You do not get to decide what I do and do not need to know!”

 

He is flushed now, his eyes dark and his breathing fast, as he advances, still jabbing a finger at Sherlock. “That is not what partners do, Sherlock! You don't simply leave in a risky situation without saying a single bloody word about where you're going!”

 

Sherlock is getting annoyed now, too. After all he had tried to be considerate, to spare John a pointless outing. “I didn't realise that I had to inform you of my whereabouts during every second,” he snaps, his voice sharp with frustration, “I am perfectly able to take care of myself! I spent three entire years taking care of myself!”

 

John goes very still and very white for a moment and then he says quietly and dangerously: “Yes, you have proven to all of us that you're happiest when you've no-one to worry about but yourself. In fact, you've proven that so thoroughly, I don't even know why you came back.”

 

With that, John turns around and busies himself with pouring himself a glass of water, leaving Sherlock to stare at his tense back8.

 

Is it possible that John still doesn't understand that – no, inconceivable. Sherlock has explained it too many times, John must know. So, John knows but he doesn't believe. The thought settles into Sherlock's stomach icily and his own frustration grows a little more. It is surprising how much it hurts that John of all people seems to be unable to understand.

 

“I already explained! I had no choice!” He snaps. “You, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson – you would all have died! I couldn't tell you, John!”

 

John whirls around and crosses his arms in front of his chest as he sneers: “Do you really expect me to believe that? That the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't come up with a solution to this problem? That you couldn't somehow have let us  _ know _ ?”

 

Sherlock feels ready to tear his own hair out by the roots in frustration. How often, exactly, will they have to go through this very same exchange?

 

“John, I – ” he tries, only to be interrupted immediately.

 

“Three years, Sherlock! Three bloody years! And you couldn't at least have let us know that you weren't dead? Do you've any idea what I went through? What Greg went through? We both blamed ourselves for your death, for God's sake!”

 

“It was never meant to go on for this long!”

 

“Oh, so deceiving me about your death would have been acceptable if it hadn't been for so long? Good to know!” John's voice is getting louder and louder.

 

Sherlock looks him in the eye, takes a deep breath and says very carefully: “The chance that you would come to harm if I told you was significantly higher than if I didn't.” He says it slowly, emphasizing each word, as you do with a small child. He is proud of how reasonable he sounds despite the fact that John's continued anger is tearing at him in a way he cannot yet define 9 .

 

John walks up to him until their faces are almost touching, his breath hot on Sherlock's skin as he spits: “Has it ever occurred to you that I might have wanted to take the risk?”

 

Sherlock closes his eyes because that, right there, is why he has never even for a second considered giving John the choice. He knows with an absolute certainty that John would have taken the risk, would have put himself in danger for Sherlock, given half a chance. He shakes his head because no, that was never an option, John dying is simply not an acceptable risk, not then and not now and – he turns around abruptly and leaves, slamming the kitchen doors shut behind himself.

 

He is halfway down the stairs when John catches up to him and grips his arm tightly.

 

“Will you stop running off?” John's voice is still gruff but when Sherlock turns around, he looks apologetic and gestures towards their flat.

 

Sherlock considers for a moment but then lets John tow him back upstairs.

 

Once they are back in the living room, John pulls him into a tight hug and says in a voice that cuts like broken glass: “God, I just get so bloody worried any time you pull something like that.”

 

Sherlock tightens his arms around John, putting his head down on his shoulder. “I'm sorry,” he whispers, “I promise you there was no danger there tonight.”

 

John chokes out a laugh and his voice is hoarse as he asks: “But how was I to know, Sherlock? How? How was I to know that you hadn't gone off to get yourself killed again?”

 

Sherlock's throat is tight and all he can do is shake his head and pull John closer, hoping that his body will get the message across: I am here. I didn't leave.

 

How has he never known just how much it can hurt to know that you have hurt the person you love? He finds it unbearable whenever it happens and yet he seems unable to stop it. The thought drives him a little wild.

 

Then, John's legs buckle suddenly, as they only do when he has survived a truly terrifying situation, and Sherlock gently lowers both of them to the floor, still clutching John tightly.

 

 

 

When John realised that Sherlock had left without him despite having explicitly requested John's help for this evening, he tried to tell himself not to worry. The case was, after all, one of their tamer ones and it was unlikely that Sherlock would come to any harm.

 

As it turned out, these soothing considerations hadn't kept him from lying awake for most of the night, battling completely irrational worries about Sherlock getting shot or, worse, leaving him again without a word.

 

“Don't leave me!” John whispers now, choked and half muffled in Sherlock's jumper, “Don't leave me! Don't leave me! Don't leave me! Don't leave me! Don't leave me!”

John realises how pathetic he sounds, how desperate and childish but he simply cannot help himself, cannot stop the words from coming. He feels as if this has been building up in him ever since he realised that Sherlock was still alive. The words will choke him if he doesn't let them out, will lodge in his throat and make breathing impossible.

At first Sherlock doesn't say anything, he just holds on tightly. So tightly, in fact, that it is downright painful. John doesn't mind. Sherlock's breathing is ragged, too, and at some point he starts talking as well, his voice low and hoarse.

“Never! I won't! I won't! I promise! Never again! God, John, I won't! I won't! I promise, I promise!”

John can't remember ever hearing Sherlock babble before and somehow that little piece of strangeness gets through to him in his frantic state, making him realise that he has somehow managed to scare the shit out of Sherlock Holmes.

The thought is so absurd that it calms him a little and after a moment he manages to stop talking long enough to draw in one, two deep breaths. The strange pepperminty feel of coolness on his skin that has always signalled hyperventilation recedes a little and his heart stops galloping quite so painfully.

Slowly they calm their frantic rocking back and forth on the dusty living room floor – John has no idea who started it but has a horrible suspicion it might have been him – and finally they simply sit there, John's arms still locked behind Sherlock's back, Sherlock's head hooked over John's shoulder. Their breathing seems loud in the silence that follows and for long minutes neither one of them is ready to let go at all.

  
  


  
  


  
  


What Greg hadn't quite anticipated is that being in a polyamorous relationship with John and Sherlock apparently also makes him a referee of their fights. It's not really a job he enjoys.

  
  


Right now, Sherlock is pacing, still wrapped in his coat, and gesturing wildly as he snarls his frustration into Greg's living room. “I just don't understand why we had to have the same argument again! It's not even an argument! It's just a pointless re-iteration of already stated positions. And a lot of yelling!”

 

Greg, who is watching him from the couch, sighs and presses the cold beer bottle to his forehead. His day had already been long, even before a desperately unhappy Sherlock had demanded entry into his flat, insisting that Greg explain the latest of what must be a series of fights with John.

 

“Look, Sherlock, I don't know what happened exactly, but believe me, having the same fight over and over again? That's what people _do_!”

 

Sherlock just glowers at him from where he is standing in front of Greg's bookcase, both hands buried in his pockets, looking both supremely annoyed and utterly miserable.

 

Greg sighs again and tilts the neck of his bottle at the space on the couch. “Come on, stop wearing a groove in my carpet, will you? Just tell me what happened. And then maybe, at some point, I can actually get some sleep.” God, he must be mental to start doing this again. It had been so _nice_ when John had shown up and taken over all of Greg's “explaining emotions to Sherlock”-duties. But it seems that, this time, John is the problem.

 

Sherlock glares at his feet for a moment and then strides over, flopping down onto the couch with such force Greg bounces a little. Oh yeah, definitely a John problem. God help them both.

 

“So?” he prods after a moment, “what do you fight about, you and John?”

 

Sherlock snorts dismissively. “Hardly the point and not the question I asked. What I _want_ to know is why John demands to have the same tedious argument over and over again.”

 

“Yeah, that's not how this works, Sherlock. John isn't some sort of skipping record that needs a good wash. Believe me, if you're fighting about the same thing over and over again, it's important what it is.”

 

Sherlock next to him is silent for a bit and then mutters something Greg doesn't catch. “What's that?”

 

With an annoyed huff Sherlock repeats: “John isn't satisfied with the explanations I give for my behaviour.”

 

Greg raises both eye-brows. “Your behaviour? You'll have to be a tad more specific. What sort of behaviour are we talking about here?”

 

“We are talking about...my absence,” Sherlock finally explains.

 

Greg can't help the sarcastic snort. “Your 'absence'? Do you mean the three years during which you left everyone to think you were dead? Well,” he corrects himself after a pause, “everyone except Molly and Mycroft.”

 

There is a sting in his words that he knows won't help this conversation but goddamn, he is only human. And it had been hard, so hard to believe that Sherlock was gone forever. To watch John grieve.

 

But Sherlock glares at him in a way that clearly says _Et tu, Brute?_ Then he gets up and resumes his pacing. “I have explained my reasoning, I have given all necessary background information,” he bites out, “but somehow we always end up at the same question: Why did I do it?”

 

Greg winces as Sherlock throws his hands up in frustration. He isn't surprised that John is not letting Sherlock off lightly in that regard, but he also knows that Sherlock always tries to understand people's behaviour via logic alone and that this must drive him batshit. He has to admit that it warms his heart a little to realise that Sherlock still trusts Greg like this. Trusts him to make sense of the world for him. At least when it is about feelings, never Sherlock's strong suit.

 

“So,” he asks, his own irritation receding a little, “what do you say when he asks you that?”

 

Sherlock looks honestly tired and Greg is suddenly reminded of just how new all of this is to Sherlock. The poor bastard must be scared out of his mind by all these emotions floating around, he thinks.

 

Nevertheless, he obediently comes to stand in front of Greg and starts to count off on his fingertips: “I tell him that keeping you in the dark was the course of action least likely to get you killed. That taking Moriarty's organisation out by myself was both the most rational and the most economical choice. That I never expected this...deception to go on for as long as it did.”

 

Greg takes a deep breath and reminds himself again that, in many ways, this was a selfless act. Maybe the first genuinely selfless act he has ever seen Sherlock perform. And Sherlock has come to him because he genuinely doesn't understand, doesn't realise that you can love and hate somebody for what they did at the same time.

 

“How did you make your decision?” is what he finally settles on.

 

Sherlock frowns. “I examined every possible course of action and the accompanying risks. Taking Moriarty's organisation out by myself was the most economical course of action which promised to minimise both the duration and intensity of any negative consequences.”

 

“And did you...,” Greg has to think for a moment, trying to find a way of twisting what he wants to say so it will fit into the available space in Sherlock's brain. “Did you find it easy? To make that decision?”

 

“What?” Sherlock seems even more confused and as a consequence, more irritated than before. “It was the most rational and economical course of action,” he repeats.

 

Greg sighs. “Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock. Do you really not see what the problem is here? People, most people, aren't rational about decisions like that. They aren't _economical_ about leaving everyone they know.”

 

“Sentiment?”

 

“Yes Sherlock, sentiment. Being so bloody rational all the time makes you seem like you don't have any.”

 

Sherlock's flat hand hits the wall. “That just doesn't make any sense! Why should the strength of my emotional attachment be measured by my inability to make sensible decisions?”

 

Greg grimaces. “Sensible decisions, right, yeah. And did you factor in everything when you were making your sensible decision?”

 

“Of course I did!” Sherlock's voice is an audible sneer. “I calculated the efficiency of Moriarty's communication network, the likelihood that news of my continued existence would reach the wrong ears, the chance of taking my opponents out by myself without arousing their suspicions – ”

 

And that right there is why Sherlock occasionally needs a Sherlock-Human translator, Greg knows. He cuts him off in the middle of the sentence and says: “Yeah, nice try, but that's not what I mean, Sherlock. Did you think about _emotions_?” He asks, knowing full well that Sherlock hadn't. “Did you 'calculate' how much people would suffer? Did you, for just one moment, consider that John might not see things your way?”

 

Sherlock blinks in surprise, so Greg continues to explain. “If I understand what you're saying, Sherlock, what you really wanted was to keep John safe, wasn't it?” God knows, it's a sentiment Greg can relate to.

 

Sherlock nods and then says: “And you. And Mrs Hudson.”

 

Hearing this makes him smile but Greg ignores his own emotions for the moment and continues: “And that is good, Sherlock, it really is. Noble, even.” He wants Sherlock to understand that he can see that. That he is genuinely impressed and touched by the immediacy and fierceness with which Sherlock chose to protect all of them over the last years.

 

Greg's eyes may be playing tricks on him because it looks like Sherlock actually blushes at that. Greg shakes his head. “But the thing is: _You_ made that decision, Sherlock. You made that decision, by yourself, without so much as talking to any of us. Without giving John a choice. In fact, you lied to him about something really important. Are you really surprised he is angry at you right now?”

 

Sherlock stares at him for a moment and then says: “I don't _understand_!” Sherlock's tone leaves little doubt as to just how frustrating that unfamiliar state is to him. “You aren't nearly as upset!”

 

And that, well. That hurts. Because, yes, one reason why Greg isn't nearly as angry and disappointed as John is right now is that he has had more than thirteen years to learn exactly how Sherlock's mind works. He knows that Sherlock genuinely has the devil of a time imagining what other people will feel in any given situation. But there is also the fact that Greg has given up hope long ago that Sherlock will ever feel as deeply about him as he feels about Sherlock. He would have been honestly surprised to learn that Sherlock had taken his feelings into account when he made that decision. So, what he finally says is: “Well, I never expected as much from you, did I?”

 

Greg knows that it sounds cold and callous, but it has been eating away at him for a long time. He isn't proud of resenting the fact that it's John Sherlock cares about enough that he is examining his own behaviour. That Sherlock is here, right now, to understand how to make John happy, but that he hasn't even said a single word of apology to Greg so far.

 

To his surprise, Sherlock reaction isn't to explain to him in excruciating detail all the perfectly logical reasons for why he matters less than John does. Instead, he freezes for a moment and then looks at Greg with so much disappointment and pain that Greg feels it like a physical blow. What the hell?

 

Abruptly, Sherlock strides over to the door and just before he lets himself out, he turns one last time and says very quietly: “These last three years – it was not how I would have chosen to spend them. But I had a choice to make. Friends protect people.” That last bit sounds like he is quoting somebody and Greg wants to ask who, wants to apologise and tell Sherlock that he knows that these last few years have been tough on him, too, wants to tell him he had no idea just how much he matters to Sherlock. But Sherlock has already slammed the door behind himself and is gone.

 

A few seconds later the door opens again and Sherlock sticks his head into the hallway looking both a little calmer and thoroughly annoyed. “I forgot to ask you an important question,” he says before Greg can even open his mouth. “How do I fix it?”

 

“Fix it?”

 

Sherlock waves one hand impatiently. “With John. How do I prevent these recurring arguments?”

 

Greg is so flabbergasted at the unexpected direction this is taking that he answers Sherlock's question without thinking. “You should give him some time and prove that you won't do that again. You know, don't run off without him or leave him at crime scenes for a change. Don't make decisions for him.”

 

Sherlock looks thoughtful and then nods. “Thank you.” And then he is really gone, leaving Greg alone in his living room with his unexpected revelations and the depressing feeling that he has just kicked a man in the teeth without meaning to.

1Boring case, it was obvious it was the father-in-law, but he hadn't had a chance to practice his rooftop climbing in a while so it was an adequate exercise.

2His coat in the hallway, the smell of his cologne in the room, his laptop and shoes near his armchair.

3The cup had been placed in the sink but the depression on the armrest was still noticeable

4The position of the remote indicating he had only switched off the television when he had become clumsy with tiredness.

5Except for when he can observe them in a reflection.

6Even when John sleeps without nightmares, which happens approximately 70% of the time, he usually wakes up at least once a night and goes down to get himself a drink. Why he doesn't simply keep a glass of water upstairs is a mystery to Sherlock.

7John's heart and respiratory rate have shot up, too, but he hardly needs these markers to know that John is angry.

8From the way John is holding himself, Sherlock can tell that the shift was a difficult one, that he had to restrain at least one man over the age of 50, as well as tending to a small child.

9He might have to go back to Ekman, P. & Friesen, W. V (1969). The repertoire of nonverbal behavior: Categories, origins, usage, and coding. _Semiotica_ , _1_ , 49–98. The amount of reading he has had to do on the topic of emotions in the last few months is frankly ridiculous.


	9. Emergence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They still have a serial killer to catch and the world is still a dangerous place, but the wonderful feeling of rightness, of puzzle pieces finally slotting together that John feels upon waking up like this stays with him all during the investigation._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update is early and the next one will have to wait until I get back from my best friend's wedding (yes, really) on Sunday evening.

The door to Lestrade's block of flats refuses to slam behind him, which only serves to increase Sherlock's fury. He wants to slam things, smash things, break equipment or hurl a prized vase to the floor. It is too bad Mycroft's house is at the other end of the city, he always has plenty of expensive china around for such occasions.

 

He strides off quickly in the direction of Regent's Street, where he will be sure to catch a cab, his shoes beating out an angry tattoo on the concrete. He will go to the lab at Barts, he decides, where things will be quiet and orderly at this time of night1. He needs to lose himself in the structured world of chemical analysis, of predictable reactions and precise measurements for a few hours. He needs to regain the confidence that he can predict the consequences of his own actions accurately enough to make decisions quickly and correctly, needs to reassure himself that it is not his reasoning or perception that is at fault here but simply the intractable irrationality of other people's emotions.

 

Both John and Lestrade must have some kind of defect, he thinks, as he climbs up the stairs to the blessedly empty lab, fuming silently. Maybe he should try and make them take the Wechsler Adult Intelligence Scale? A sort of localised retardation of cognitive development is the only thing he can think of which would explain why Lestrade seemed to have the absurd idea that Sherlock doesn't care about him, why John seems unable to see Sherlock's behaviour as the expression of love that it is.

 

He sits down at the lab table and busies himself with thin layer chromatographies for a while, letting the careful application of samples to plates calm his thoughts.

 

 

 

It is several hours later and if Sherlock was paying any attention to the windows he would have noticed that the sky has become light and the ceiling lamp increasingly unnecessary. At the moment, however, he is utterly absorbed in what he sees through his microscope.

 

He adjust the focus slightly and then swears vehemently. Another contaminated sample! The third in a row! He gets up, shoving his chair back harder than intended in his frustration so that it clatters to the floor.

 

“Fuck!” He yells, annoyed beyond reason at his own clumsiness.

 

This is not supposed to happen. The lab is where he is in control, where he is always in his element, elegant and fast. But it seems that there is no getting away from other people's clumsiness2, that no matter how carefully he plans, no matter how diligently he sticks to his plan, the human element, in the end, will destroy his efforts.

 

He fists both hands in his hair and tugs hard, trying to calm the frantic thoughts in his head. He is aware that his reaction is disproportionate. This wasn't a particularly important experiment and the liver samples are easily replicated. But somehow this failed analysis is the detail that annoys him beyond reason.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

The uncontrolled whirling of thoughts, impressions and memories in his head jolts to an abrupt halt at the sound of John's voice.

 

He looks up and there, in the door, stands John in his dark jacket and the same jeans he wore yesterday3. His face looks pale and a little haggard as if he, too, had spent a night fighting with recalcitrant lab equipment4 and he is looking at Sherlock with obvious concern.

 

“Are you alright?” He asks, taking a step towards Sherlock and reaching out a hand. “I woke up and you were gone and I didn't...I thought you might be here.”

 

Sherlock looks at him for a moment, drinking in the familiar military stance and the bags under John's eyes, the way the early morning light makes his hair look lighter than usual5.

 

Then he clears his throat and points at the offending slide. “I'm fine, just a contaminated sample.”

 

John raises his eyebrows, a clear indication that he is just as surprised as he should be at Sherlock's unusual emotional reaction to what is after all a fairly common occurrence in most labs. He looks away briefly and when his eyes meet Sherlock's again, their blue seems darker than before.

 

“Sherlock I wanted...I need to apologise.” Sherlock is too surprised to say anything and so John simply continues. “What I said last night – that wasn't very fair. I'm...” John takes a deep breath. “I'm just so glad to have you back and the thought of losing you again, I just...” John looks down and swallows audibly.

 

Sherlock realises that he has taken an involuntary step forward. “John,” he starts, ready to apologise again, to do anything, really, to make the brittle look disappear from John's face, but John shakes his head.

 

“No, Sherlock, I need to say this.” He looks Sherlock straight in the eye, his face showing a mix of contrition, pain and tenderness. “I know that you did what you had to. I know that the last three years were hard for you and that you did things...you might not have wanted to, in order to keep us safe.”

 

Sherlock lets out a deep breath he hadn't been aware of holding. Is it possible that John does understand after all?

 

“It's just - ” John looks away for a moment and then back at Sherlock helplessly. “Knowing the reason for why you did it is important, yes. But it doesn't make it any easier, you know? It hurts, Sherlock. It's going to hurt for a while. And...it's not going to just disappear because you explain why. Look, I know you don't understand why I can't let this go. But I need you to know that it's not because I don't appreciate what you've done. Do you get that?”

 

John looks embarrassed, like he maybe doesn't like the fact that his emotions are illogical any more than Sherlock does.

 

Sherlock nods. “Thank you, John.” Even to his own ears his voice sounds a little gravelly and he has to blink against unexpected moisture in his eyes. The fact that John understands, that he sees what Sherlock was trying to do, means a lot.

 

“Hey,” John says, his voice suddenly gentle and without any trace of awkwardness, “hey, come here, I think we both need a hug.” Two quick steps take him right into Sherlock's personal space and he wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist firmly. Sherlock sighs and breathes in John's smell of cheap detergent and shaving foam. He pulls John in and turns his head sideways so that his cheek comes to rest on John's shoulder. It is strange, John's words haven't really resolved anything, haven't actually solved anything at all, but he already feels immeasurably more calm, his thoughts falling back into the ordered, reliable patterns he is used to.

 

They stand like this for roughly a minute6 when there is a knock on the door and Lestrade sticks in his head.

 

“Ah, here you are. I'm sorry, but I think I need you upstairs. It seems we have a serial killer on our hands.”

 

John turns around, looking not at all happy at the interruption. “Really Greg? Right now?”

 

Lestrade looks apologetic, but nods and grimaces. “Sorry, love, but it really has to be now.”

 

It always makes Sherlock slightly uncomfortable to hear Lestrade use any form of endearment for John, though he can't quite figure out why. John, however, visibly deflates next to Sherlock, giving in.

 

“Right, then, come on,” he says and walks out the door.

 

When Sherlock moves to follow him, however, Lestrade blocks his path, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “Listen, Sherlock,” he says, his voice low and his eyes skittering over the different parts of Sherlock's face, “about what I said about, um, about not expecting much of you...um. ” Lestrade stops, obviously looking for the right words while Sherlock looks at him, hoping he will put both of them out of their misery7. He can still feel the sting of the words and would much rather be distracting himself with a serial killer.

 

Finally, Lestrade blows out a deep breath and says: “I think I didn't really get that you did what you did for...well, that it wasn't just for John, yeah?”

 

Sherlock blinks several times in confusion. “Why do you think you don't matter?” Is what he finally says, because really, it is a puzzle that he has been fretting away at in a back corner of his mind all night.

 

Lestrade blushes at that and looks away, clearing his throat. “I...”

 

But before he can complete the sentence, John sticks his head in, frowning. “Aren't you coming? I thought we had a serial killer to catch!”

 

And the moment is lost.

 

 

 

 

It is a fast-paced investigation and Greg is swearing pretty much continuously because he has to organise people sent in from about twenty different divisions.

 

And yet, despite all the mayhem and anxiety, he still finds himself smiling broadly now and again. Sherlock's implied statement that he cared for him more than Greg had realised makes him feel warm and unusually patient with the young secretary who has never coordinated an investigation like this before. Poor sod, he's sweating through his shirt.

 

Also, there is the fact that Sherlock is back and John and Sherlock are a joy to watch when they are like this: Intense and in sync. He can see John flare to life with a blinding brightness under the stress and Sherlock's demands, can see Sherlock lose his pallor and battle fatigue as his mind kicks into high gear over the puzzle and the urgency.

 

He admits to himself that they are both beautiful like this. Sherlock is wild and amazing and gorgeous as he blazes a trail through their incident room, scattering deductions like diamond-tipped arrows, sharp and precious. John at his side is steady and fierce, every inch the soldier, alert and ruthlessly competent in a way that goes straight to Greg's dick. God, but he has missed this. How on earth had he survived for three years without the romance of John and Sherlock in action?

 

 

 

They've been at the investigation for three straight days now, and Greg is watching Sherlock pace around his living room with increasing concern. He is pretty sure Sherlock hasn't slept once during all that time and God knows if he has eaten.

 

Right now, he has the pictures of the victims, the crimes scenes and dump sites tacked up on the living room wall and is walking up and down in front of them, muttering to himself.

 

Greg glances over at John and sees his own concern mirrored on John's face. John is sitting at the desk, leafing through autopsy reports. He doesn't look like he got all that much sleep, either, making Greg think that he is surviving on cat naps and caffeine pills, the way he often does when Sherlock is in the grip of a case.

 

Greg rubs a hand over his burning eyes. He feels utterly exhausted, has been running the official arm of the investigation, coordinating detectives from all over London, making sure they are covering their bases. It's not looking good, though: So far no neighbour has seen anything suspicious, no spouse noticed unusual behaviour and there appears to be absolutely no connection between the victims. Except for the fact that they have all been abducted from their workplaces, only to turn up in the Thames four days later, strangled and naked.

 

There have been five victims so far and it is entirely possible that the killer is at this very moment holding another poor bastard hostage. The problem with a city like London is that one person going missing is unlikely to attract any attention, and they have no way to tell the usual missing persons cases apart from the poor buggers their killer snatches until it is too late.

 

Sherlock is muttering to himself now, long hands pressed together under his chin, as he strides back and forth. He stumbles, suddenly and Greg starts forward, ready to catch him, but Sherlock regains his balance at the last moment and resumes his pacing. Greg thinks he recognises the state: Sherlock is too tired to actually make any progress with his deductions but too frantic and keyed up to stop trying. That's usually his cue.

 

He heaves a sigh and takes a step forward, laying a hand on Sherlock's shoulder as he says: “I think we all need a break, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock twists around and glares at him. “He is out there right now, Lestrade!” he says angrily, “playing his twisted little game. And I can stop him, I know I can, if only I can figure out how – ”

 

“I know, Sherlock,” Greg interrupts him. “I know you can stop him, OK? That's why I'm here. But you're not getting anywhere at the moment,” he ignores the poisonous glare he gets from Sherlock for that, “because you're fit to drop. Literally. Take a break, will you?”

 

Sherlock twists away from him, trying to get out from under his hand and he can see John roll his eyes as he stifles another yawn. Clearly he has already tried something similar with no luck, but Greg ignores him and tightens his grip on Sherlock's arm. He makes his voice as authoritative as he can as he barks out: “Sherlock!”

 

Sherlock tenses in surprise and looks at him, quite possibly actually seeing him for the first time. Now that he is sure he has Sherlock's attention, Greg looks him in the eyes and says in a voice that leaves no room for arguments: “Listen to me! _You_ are going to take a break. You will _go to bed_. Or, God help me, I'm going to take you off the case. Are we clear?”

 

Sherlock regards him through narrowed eyes. “You wouldn't take me off the case, you have little to no chance of solving it without me.”

 

Oh, for the love of God. “Yeah,” Greg nods, “but you're not doing us any good like this, either. So, it's entirely up to you: You can either take a nap now and come back when you can actually think again or I will. Shut. You. Out. Are we clear?” He emphasises each word forcefully, never breaking his gaze. He knows that this is not really an argument he will win through logic, but he is banking on the fact that he can be pretty commanding when he wants to. It has worked in the past.

 

And really, in the end, Sherlock looks away and nods in a disgruntled fashion.

 

Greg let's go of his arm. “Good,” he nods, “off to bed with you!”

 

As Sherlock turns around and starts to walk in the direction of his room, Greg takes a look at John and nearly laughs out loud. John's eyes are comically wide and he looks so stunned that Greg is willing to bet John has never seen anyone successfully order Sherlock around before. Greg can't suppress a satisfied grin at that. He is an accomplished supervisor and he knows it, but it is still gratifying to know that his boss voice works even on the great Sherlock Holmes.

 

“Jesus,” John says admiringly, “that was bloody amazing. You are hot when you do that, do you know?”

 

Greg can feel his grin broaden. “That so?” He asks teasingly. He'll have to remember that for – There is a crash from the direction of the bathroom and he and John almost collide in the doorway as they sprint towards the noise.

 

They find Sherlock on the floor in his dressing gown, already trying to sit up again.

 

“What the hell was that?” John asks, sounding almost angry in his concern as he kneels at Sherlock's side.

 

Sherlock shakes his head once, as if to clear it and then says in a peevish voice: “I...must have fainted for a moment. Oh, don't worry,” he snaps, when John tries to examine his head. “I didn't hit my head.”

 

John huffs out an exasperated breath as he sits back on his heels. “Alright, alright, let's get you up then.”

 

Together Greg and John manage to hoist Sherlock to his feet and then Greg carefully steers him to his bedroom, ready to brace another fall.

 

John disappears into the kitchen where Greg can hear him clatter about, as he leans against the wall and watches Sherlock fight with the sleeves of his dressing gown, his fingers clumsy with suddenly realised exhaustion. Eventually Greg gets tired of the sight of the world's smartest man being bested by a piece of clothing and steps forward to lend a hand.

 

Sherlock tries to bat him away at first – “Get off me, Lestrade, I can undress myself, thank you very much!” – but in the end he holds still long enough for Greg to pull the offending garment off him, rolling his eyes in exasperated affection.

 

As Sherlock settles in under the covers, John comes back with a steaming mug of porridge but Sherlock wrinkles his nose and turns his head away. “I'm not hungry.”

 

 _Oh, for God's sake_. Sometimes, Greg thinks, Sherlock is the most amazing human being on the planet. And sometimes he is the world's most overgrown five-year-old.

 

“Sherlock!” Greg says sharply from where he is still standing at the edge of the bed, “you're going to eat something or I swear, I will force it down your throat myself!”

 

Sherlock glares but after two long seconds of trying to outstare Greg to no avail, he sighs and rolls his eyes, holding one hand out for the mug.

 

“Thank you, John,” John says sarcastically, as he hands it over, and Sherlock looks a little chastised. But John just shakes his head and presses a brief kiss to Sherlock's temple.

 

“Greg is right, just eat, yeah?” And Sherlock inhales the porridge at an alarming speed.

 

John looks at Greg with amusement and they share a moment of “I'm so glad I'm not alone with him when he gets like this.” Greg wants to grin at John, but suddenly a yawn is splitting his face instead and he realises that he is seriously fighting the temptation of simply faceplanting onto Sherlock's bed and falling asleep right here.

 

“Yeah,” John nods, “I'm knackered, too.”

 

Sherlock gives them a shrewd glance and then, after he has set down the empty mug, he shifts to the side, holding up the duvet. John blinks at him for a moment, but then shrugs, toes off his shoes and crawls in. Within seconds they are both asleep.

 

Greg yawns again, thinking that he really should head home or at least go and kip on the sofa or maybe John's bed upstairs – but in the end he is so tired that he simply thinks _Fuck it!_ He sets the alarm on his watch so they don't sleep more than a few hours, shrugs off his suit jacket and squeezes in next to John, hooking one arm over John's waist so he won't fall off the bed. Unconsciousness claims him within seconds.

 

 

 

He wakes up to an insistent whimpering noise but, half-asleep and in the confusing dark grey of unfamiliar shadows, it takes him a moment to realise that this time it's evidently not John having a nightmare because John is breathing evenly right next to him.

 

Greg lifts his head from where it is resting on John's chest and cautiously peers over to the other side of the bed. On John's left side, Sherlock is twisting and turning, mumbling into the pillow in a voice that sounds increasingly distressed. Poor bastard must be having a nightmare.

 

“Sherlock,” he hisses, trying not to wake John. “Sherlock, wake up!” When that doesn't work, he reaches across John and gently shakes Sherlock's shoulder. “Hey, wake up. You're dreaming.”

 

Sherlock suddenly shoots bolt upright, breathing heavily and looking around him in confusion.

 

“It's OK,” Greg whispers soothingly. “Just a dream.”

 

Sherlock lets out a sigh of relief and lies back down. His eyes are still a little wide as he resettles his head on John's shoulder and Greg finds that he has started to stroke his hand over Sherlock's arm in an attempt to calm him down. Sherlock doesn't protest, so he keeps it up for a bit.

 

“You OK?” he asks softly, as Sherlock continues to stare into the darkness.

 

Sherlock's eyes meet his own and Greg realises just how foolish his question must have sounded. None of them are going to be truly OK until they have found this madman.

 

With a huff, Sherlock closes his eyes again, but when Greg tries to withdraw his hand, Sherlock quickly grabs it with his own. In the end, they fall asleep with their hands still intertwined, resting on John's sternum. Just before he loses consciousness completely, Greg thinks that maybe they should do this more often. It feels nice, having both John and Sherlock so close, no-one left out, all snug and safe within arm's reach.

 

 

 

John wakes up because he is sweating like a pig and unable to move.

 

It takes him a moment to realise that this is because he is almost completely buried under Sherlock on his left and Greg on his right side. He smiles a little at that, particularly when he realises that the weight on his chest comes from their clasped hands.

 

They still have a serial killer to catch and the world is still a dangerous place, but the wonderful feeling of rightness, of puzzle pieces finally slotting together that he feels upon waking up like this stays with him all during the investigation.

 

 

 

In the end, it takes them two weeks to track the man down and Sherlock is more than a little annoyed when one of the profilers the Yard has called in is the one to figure out that all of their victims spent some time in a Brighton hotel at some point in their lives.

 

Once they know that their killer is likely the hotel manager's son, who has amassed a murderous grudge against all the people who took his mother's attention away from him, Sherlock is able to take one look at the young man's bedroom and deduce that he is currently staying in a youth hostel in Camden.

 

Greg expects him to rush off and apprehend the killer, already poised to sprint after him and make sure he won't end up as victim no. 9, but Sherlock stops himself halfway out the door. Instead he pulls out his mobile, hits the 1 which Greg knows is speed dial for John, who is still talking to the mother, and says quickly: “Yes, yes, stop it, meet Lestrade and me at the car,” and hangs up.

 

As they're all careening down the A23, John leans over from the back seat and asks Sherlock, who is tapping the window with his fingers nervously: “Are you sure you're alright?”

 

Greg can't really afford to take his eyes off the road but he's pretty sure that earns him one of Sherlock's death glares.

 

“Of course I'm alright!” Sherlock snaps.

 

“Right,” John says dubiously, “only, you don't usually wait five minutes for me to catch up with you. Why the hell aren't I still sitting in that living room interviewing that poor old lady while you are off chasing killers?”

 

Greg can't suppress a grin. Seeing Sherlock take his advice to heart never really gets old.

 

There is a beat of silence and then Sherlock says awkwardly: “You don't like it when I take off without you.”

 

“Well, no,” John agrees, “it is bloody annoying. But that's never stopped you before.”

 

Greg can see Sherlock shrug out of the corner of his eye. “After our recent dispute it seemed advisable to...provide you with evidence that...I'm not going to run out on you anymore.”

 

“Oh,” John says, sounding utterly stunned, “that is...wow. That is very kind of you.”

 

And Greg can't be sure but he thinks Sherlock actually smiles at that, looking genuinely happy.

 

 

 

1Chance of encountering Molly on a Tuesday night: 12%, chance of encountering anyone else: 3%, chance of John tracking him down in the lab: 70%

2The lab tech, desperate to show off to his girlfriend, had accidentally touched the culture while trying to look elegant.

3He had woken up and dressed in a hurry, using the first piece of clothing he could find.

4Even though the imprint of a pillow crease on his left cheek says otherwise.

5He knows each grey hair John acquired over the last three years and takes each as a personal affront. How dare time change John so much in his absence?

658:34:12 seconds

7Lestrade had been woken before his alarm this morning, most likely by a phonecall informing him of the serial killer case. He had grabbed breakfast on the way, buying coffee and a chocolate bar at the newsagent's around the corner.


	10. Like my own Rubicon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“This is not working!” Greg yells as he slams the cupboard door shut._
> 
> _“This is not working!” John sighs as he makes his way down the stairs._
> 
> _“This is not working!” Sherlock hisses as he angrily throws himself on the couch._
> 
>  
> 
> This is the breaking point. Or is it?

“This is not working!” Greg yells as he slams the cupboard door shut. He leans his forehead against the door, breathing heavily, trying to get his annoyance under control. This is the second time in a _week_ that John has phoned him apologetically to say that he won't be able to make dinner because of a case. Not their date-nights, mind. Just ordinary, run of the mill dinner at Greg's place. Still.

  
  


And yes, they had all agreed that cases which require John's presence to make sure Sherlock is safe have priority over date-nights. But back then Greg hadn't expected it to happen quite so bloody often. He is getting increasingly suspicious, too. Recently, their cases all seem to have their crisis point neatly lined up with nights John has reserved for them.

  
  


He might have to have a quiet word with Sherlock about this. The manipulative bastard. What the hell had got into him?

  
  


  
  


  
  


“This is not working!” John sighs as he makes his way down the stairs. He is going to Greg's tonight, come hell or high water, because he _will_ prove he is dependable, dammit. He has already had to cancel on the man three times this months and even though he always had good reason to – emergency shift at the hospital, people coming after Sherlock with guns – he can tell that Greg's patience is wearing thin.

  
  


Still, he feels uneasy leaving Sherlock alone after he has told John that there is a good chance the mysterious organisation they have been tracking all over London will show up on their doorstep tonight.

  
  


_Sherlock has survived on his own for three years with all of Moriarty's people after him_ , he reminds himself. _He can take care of himself._ Plus, John is pretty sure Sherlock isn't being entirely truthful in his assessment of the situation. At least part of this, John thinks, is Sherlock being truly unhappy about the short trip he and Greg will go on in two weeks. It's just five days on the Isle of Wight and they had booked the holiday months before Sherlock's return but that doesn't stop him from being a complete prat about it.

  
  


John frowns worriedly as he pushes his hands deeper into his jacket pockets to shield them from the biting cold. The truth is, Sherlock has become increasingly...well, 'clingy' sounds like he is talking about a child. But John feels sure that Sherlock has been acting increasingly possessive ever since John brought up the holiday he was going on. It's clear that there is something about the idea that worries Sherlock deeply and which is winding the tension between him and Greg tighter than it has ever been. It is almost, John thinks, as if Sherlock has suddenly developed jealousy. The thought weighs on him, making him gnaw on his lip. He doesn't at all like the idea that his and Greg's relationship might be hurting Sherlock. At the same time, there is no way he will let Sherlock's sudden bout of insecurity interfere with what is some much needed away and alone time with Greg.

  
  


  
  


  
  


“This is not working!” Sherlock hisses as he angrily throws himself on the couch.

  
  


A part of him knows full well that he has been pushing it: There has been more than one case recently which he has carefully timed so he would have good reason to insist on John's presence on a night when he and Lestrade had plans. At the same time he feels well within his rights: All through these three long years what had sustained him was the knowledge that afterwards he would come home to John. He would come home and he would tell John how he feels about him and all would be well. Everything would be exactly as it used to be, only better.

  
  


And to a degree that is exactly what happened. Things between him and John are good, are better than they ever were before. They still chase criminals all over London together, but now when they come home more often than not they fall into bed together for sex that is at times rough and frenzied but just as often slow and sweet. When they sit together in the evenings, John reading a medical journal and Sherlock working his way through a new casefile, Sherlock usually ends up leaning against John's legs, papers spread out around him. Not only does John make for a superior backrest, he also, from time to time, will lean down and press a kiss to Sherlock's mouth or ear or temple, depending on what he can reach. It should disrupt his concentration – and sometimes it does, when the kisses turn more heated and they make out for a while before resuming their reading – but on the whole, Sherlock thinks he has never worked so well.

  
  


But then, there is the issue of Lestrade. It had been more painful than he anticipated to realise that John had apparently achieved effortlessly what Sherlock has been striving for for so long and with such desperate intent: Lestrade's love and regard. In addition, recently, Sherlock has noticed that John has become more and more set on keeping all of his appointments with Lestrade, quite often leaving Sherlock in the middle of a chase or rushing off after they have just finished an investigation.

  
  


What, he wonders, is wrong with him that John chooses Lestrade over him? That Lestrade will never touch him in anything but a platonic manner? The thought makes him feel small and ugly, bringing with it memories of his days at school and university where everyone seemed to make friends effortlessly except for him.

  
  


He shoves the thought aside angrily, turning his face to the backrest of the sofa and pulling his dressing gown tightly around himself, trying to ignore the helpless self-loathing it calls up. Instead he focuses on his anger. How dare Lestrade go away for five full days and take John with him? Who is John to have have two partners to choose from at any given moment, always leaving one of them out in the cold?

  
  


_He is John,_ a nasty little voice murmurs in his ear _, John, who is lovable and kind, handsome and oh so good with his hands. John, whom everyone wants, if the rumours from his army days are to be believed, which Murray will occasionally allude to when he comes over for a pint. John who always knows the right thing to say when people are troubled in his presence, who makes friends and acquaintances with a speed that is almost vertiginous._

  
  


_Who would want you, the freak, the guy who can't even make normal conversation without offending somebody? The only thing special about you is your mind,_ the voice continues, its tone familiar and cutting _, and nobody falls in love with a computer. Didn't Lestrade prove that to you? And now they have each other. They understand each other, these two, neither of them intimidating the other with his mind, both of them warm and caring to a degree you can never hope to be. Face it, Sherlock, if John values what he can have in Greg Lestrade, what can there possibly be about you that can keep his interest for long?_

  
  


He gets up and tunes his violin with short, jerky movements, willing the voice to stop, knowing full well that his music will not be interrupted by the men whose threat he had tried to use to keep John from going.

  
  


He plays like he is running for his life.

  
  


  
  


  
  


Greg is more than surprised when John lets himself in, minutes after Greg has finished packing away dinner.

  
  


“John? I thought you were staying with Sherlock tonight. What happened to the imminent threat to his life?”

  
  


John looks weary and resigned as he hangs his jacket over the back of a chair. He turns to Greg and shrugs. “Sherlock can take care of himself. Besides, there's always Mycroft. Mycroft owes us. Tonight is our night. So, what do you want to do?”

  
  


“Right,” Greg says “How about we sit down and you tell me why you look so tired all the time?”

  
  


John laughs ruefully. “Yeah, I wonder why that could be. With a full time job and two partners.” He shakes his head, his brow creased in a worried frown Greg does not like at all.

  
  


In the end, they simply heat up dinner and watch a film. Greg isn't paying any attention to the flickering images, though, he is much too busy studying John out of the corner of his eye. Recently John has all too often looked exhausted and a little sad when he isn't guarding himself and Greg knows that he hadn't been joking earlier: Between double shifts in A&E, Sherlock's case load and their little domestic arrangement John seems to be running himself ragged. Especially, since Greg is relatively sure that the fact that John won't compromise on their date-nights has led to more than one fight with Sherlock. At the beginning, he has to admit, this fact had filled him with quiet satisfaction. He had needed tangible evidence that John was not about to swap him out for Sherlock, that John's earnest commitment to them both was real.

  
  


But he is getting increasingly more worried. This is not how it's supposed to be, more lovers should increase the amount of love in John's life, not his stress level. And it's not as if Greg hasn't noticed the unhappy glances Sherlock has been throwing them lately when he thinks they aren't looking. He thinks Sherlock is jealous, absurd as it may sound and that in turn makes John unhappy. And Greg as well. Seeing John tie himself into knots trying to meet everyone's needs but his own and the tight, miserable hunch of Sherlock's shoulders are starting to take the joy out of him, too. He loves John more than he can properly express and the idea of losing him upsets him so much he has thought about starting to smoke again more than once. At least it would give him something to do when he is pacing his tiny balcony at night, trying to find a solution that doesn't seem to exist. He really, really doesn't want to be the one standing between John and happiness. Or, for that matter, be the one who destroys the first chance Sherlock has ever had, as far as Greg knows, at having a relationship with somebody who truly loves him.

  
  


This is getting unbearable and he is afraid that something has got to give, soon.

  
  


He is afraid it might be himself.

  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


“I think you need to choose,” Sherlock says.

  
  


John looks up from his toast and tea, frowning in confusion. “Choose between what?”

  
  


Sherlock has his back to John and is ostensibly composing at his music stand but John can see tension in the rigid set of his shoulders, and the hand holding the pen is not moving.

  
  


“Between Lestrade and me, obviously,” Sherlock says tightly.

  
  


John very carefully sets his toast down and takes a deep breath, trying to rein in the fury he can feel creeping up his spine.

  
  


“And why would I have to do that?” he asks very calmly. Calmly, yes, but in the dangerous tone that had made most of the hardened soldiers in his unit go very still and wide-eyed.

  
  


Sherlock's voice is ostentatiously neutral as he explains over his shoulder: “Over the last months, you have been suffering from minor ailments at a much more frequent rate than previously, you have been exceptionally tired and often complained about headaches. Clearly, your current level of exhaustion is untenable in the long term. It is far from surprising, of course, as you are working a full time job at the hospital, you are working cases with me and there is Lestrade.”

  
  


The calm and analytical way in which he lays all of this out makes it sound as if he is talking about a case and for some reason that only serves to heighten John's anger. This, he knows, is about nothing so rational. Rather, it is about fear and envy and a whole host of unsavory emotions and the fact that Sherlock can't even admit that really rubs him the wrong way.

  
  


“And you think the best way to decrease my stress levels would be to make me choose between you and Greg?” John is trying to keep his irritation under control but it isn't easy. Sherlock knows what Greg means to him, knows how important this relationship is. That he would still ask John to give that up is almost unbearably self-centered. “Hell,” he bites out, “you aren't even asking me to choose. You're sure I'll choose you! You're asking me to _break up_ with him.”

  
  


John has shoved his plate away forcefully and is staring at Sherlock's back now, trying to make him to turn around through the sheer power of his indignation. _At least look me in the face if you're going to say things like that, you miserable bastard_ , he thinks.

  
  


It seems to be working, as Sherlock sets down his pen and finally looks at John. John is expecting him to look haughty and challenging, his arrogant body posture mirrored in his facial expression. Instead, he realises, Sherlock looks unsure. Frightened, even. It mollifies John a little, but not much.

  
  


“Sherlock,” he says, still with that iron calm that used to terrify his men, “if you think I'll break up with Greg simply because you're feeling jealous, you'd better think again.”

  
  


Sherlock's face closes up, becoming a neutral mask. “I already explained that I am merely worried about your health and – ”

  
  


“Bullshit!” John yells, hitting the table with the palm of his hand. Sherlock jumps in a rather gratifying way. “You don't worry about my health when you drag me through the sewers or insist I stay awake three days in a row to listen to you think out loud!”

  
  


Sherlock looks a little contrite but John doesn't actually let him get a word in edgewise, pointing a finger at him to shut him up. “And don't apologise for that! You don't need to worry about my health. _I_ worry about my health!”

  
  


John takes a deep breath and gets up, slowly advancing on Sherlock as he bites out: “You. Can't. Make. Me. Choose!”

  
  


Sherlock flinches a little but stands his ground. John would be impressed if he wasn't so angry. As it is, he simply continues shouting. “Do you have any idea what you're asking me, Sherlock? Greg and I, we didn't just decide to fuck one sunny morning! When you were gone, there was precious little left that made me happy, OK? But Greg, he...” John has to swallow, out of anger and relived pain, “he was _there_.”

  
  


He tries to convey the importance of that presence in his tone of voice because he doesn't really have any words for it. For the way that Greg had made him feel like there were little pockets of light left in the world with the power to sustain, just as shipwrecked men will sometimes keep themselves alive in pockets of air left under the wreckage. For the way he has become absolutely _necessary,_ to the degree that the idea of losing him genuinely terrifies John.

  
  


He is close to Sherlock now, close enough to see his Adam's apple bob up and down as he looks away and swallows. When he meets John's eyes again after a moment of tense silence, he looks sad and a little tired as he says:

  
  


“I'm...aware that he means a great deal to you. And I'm truly glad that the two of you...had each other.” Sherlock sounds hesitant as if searching for words that refuse to come. He pauses and looks over John's shoulder for a moment and when their eyes meet again, he looks a little desperate. “But I didn't,” he says imploringly.

  
  


“You didn't what?” John asks, confused by this sudden change of emotional tone. What on earth is Sherlock talking about?

  
  


His eyes are oddly dark and intense as they bore into John's as if trying to convey something Sherlock cannot say. He licks his lips distractedly and finally says in a low tone that is utterly uncharacteristic: “I didn't have you. Or – or him.”

  
  


Oh. “I know,” John says, slightly less angry now and even a little concerned, “I know you didn't, Sherlock. I know it was hard. But you can't simply demand – ”

  
  


But now the anger and annoyance is back in Sherlock's voice as he twirls around his own axis once and snaps: “Can't you see that this isn't _working_?”

  
  


“So, what?” John demands, forcing himself to stay absolutely still as Sherlock shoots his head forward into his personal space like a striking snake.

  
  


“So, something needs to _change_!” Sherlock hisses.

  
  


John takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. The thing is, Sherlock is not wrong. John is only too aware that things have been difficult, that this life they have cobbled together for themselves has recently been held together by little more than duct tape, hope and denial. And yet this choice Sherlock demands is an impossibility. He has loved Sherlock since he first met him, it's true, and he knows, like he knows that the Earth goes around the sun, that he will not ever leave him again. Not of his own free will.

  
  


But he loves Greg no less. Differently, yes. Their relationship isn't as complicated, has less of these exhausting and exhilarating ups and downs. At the same time, John knows that his relationship with Greg grounds him like no other. That it has allowed him to grow in ways he had never expected. That Greg has become a part of him in a way he never realised was possible for another person. Their love is deep and abiding, necessary like gravity and not something he will ever give up out of his own free will.

  
  


He looks up at Sherlock. “Sherlock,” he says, almost pleadingly now, “I _can't_. I – Greg and I have been together for three years. Three years, Sherlock. _I love him_. I _came out_ because of him. Do you have any idea what that means?” Sherlock is silent, simply watching him and suddenly the anger is back. “For fuck's sake, Sherlock,” he snarls, arms flying wide to both sides, “you have no right, no right to ask me to make that choice! It is not a _choice_!”

  
  


And then, John abruptly knows exactly what to say to get across just how impossible this situation is for him. He crosses his arms in front of his chest and fixes Sherlock with his best commanding officer stare, the one that demands total attention and concentration.

  
  


“Sherlock,” he asks very carefully and very pointedly, “how would you feel if I asked you to choose? Could you really walk out on me? Cut off any contact with Greg? Any contact at all?”

  
  


The first two questions get barely any reaction from him. Sherlock is too sure that they're hypothetical, John thinks. At the third question, however Sherlock goes very still, the thousand small movements that are Sherlock at rest coming to an abrupt halt.

  
  


John has an idea of what Greg means to Sherlock, gleaned from snatches of their history Greg has revealed over the years and the way Sherlock usually acts around him. Greg doesn't just provide Sherlock with the cases he needs and without which he would quite literally go mad with boredom. John has watched these two and he thinks that Greg makes Sherlock feel safe in a way he is maybe not even aware of. Greg is the only person John knows who can effectively lay down rules Sherlock will follow. Quite possibly, because he is also the only one mad and brave enough to devise penalties and enact them around Sherlock. Oh, John has his own ways of making sure Sherlock doesn't run roughshod over him, knows how to carve out his spaces and defend them. But he has seen how Sherlock reacts when he gets a direct order from Greg, when he comes up against his will as if against an invisible barrier. He can't be sure, of course, but he thinks there are bonds between his two partners that go deeper than the recent resentment and tension.

  
  


And really, Sherlock looks almost betrayed as John keeps looking at him expectantly. “Well?” John finally asks. “Could you?”

  
  


Unfortunately it is at this very moment that John hears Greg's familiar tread on the stairs, and seconds later the door opens.

  
  


Greg pokes his head into the living room, takes one look at them and raises both eyebrows. “Bloody hell,” he remarks, coming in, “you can cut the tension in here with a knife. What's got into you two?”

  
  


There is a moment of silence and then Sherlock blurts out, sounding almost accusatory: “I have been trying to explain to John that our current arrangement is simply not working.”

  
  


John can see Greg's eyebrows rise even higher as he folds both arms across his chest. “Is that so?” he asks, voice deceptively mild, only the thin line of his lips betraying his anger.

  
  


“Yes,” Sherlock says bitingly, “it's rather obvious, isn't it? John is exhausted, you're unhappy, I am...dissatisfied. This is not a situation that can continue.”

  
  


John expects a sharp response, maybe a sarcastic put-down. What he doesn't expect is the way Greg's shoulders slump suddenly, making him look tired and a little old.

  
  


“Yeah,” he says quietly, running a hand over his head. “It really can't, can it?”

  
  


He looks at John and John suddenly realises what this is, realises that Greg is about to do the noble and terminally stupid thing and bow out. _Fuck you and your bloody saviour complex, Greg,_ he thinks. He'll be damned if he lets that happen.

  
  


“Oh no,” he says forcefully, taking a step towards Greg, “you don't!”

  
  


He turns to glare at Sherlock. “Tell him, Sherlock,” he demands, “tell him exactly what you were going to say to me just now.”

  
  


Sherlock winces and looks everywhere but at Greg and John as he says peevishly: “It seems you are in luck, Lestrade, neither I nor John are willing to give up your acquaintance. Even though it would make things a lot easier.”

  
  


Greg stares at them for a moment. Then he shakes his head and John realises that the horrible quiet resignation on his face has made way for irritation. Somehow, that is far less frightening.

  
  


“So,” Greg asks, “you're saying you've been debating the pros and cons of breaking up with me and now I'm supposed to feel grateful that it would _inconvenience_ you too much? When you didn't even include me in the decision?”

  
  


“Oh really,” Sherlock cuts in, “a moment ago you were ready to martyr yourself and leave both of us entirely. Shouldn't you be pleased?”

  
  


“That is not the point!” Greg yells. Then he throws up his hands and turns around. “I am leaving. Do me a favour and give me some space, yeah? Both of you.”

  
  


And with that he is gone.

  
  


“Dammit!” John yells and jogs after him, almost falling down the stairs in his haste. He manages to reach Greg just before he steps through the front door.

  
  


“Wait,” he says, desperately, “please, wait.”

  
  


Greg turns around, looking angry and tense. “What, John?”

  
  


“Just,” John says, nervously wetting his lips, “please tell me you're not leaving? For good?”

  
  


Greg closes his eyes and shakes his head. “No, I'm not, OK? At least not right now. But I can't say I'm thrilled that you two had a debate about the future of our relationship behind my back.”

  
  


John winces, because, yes, that is one of their ground rules: Things that concern all three of them have to be discussed when everyone is present. “I know you're not,” he says, “but what should I've done with Sherlock suddenly springing this on me?”

  
  


Greg just shakes his head. “I don't know, John, OK? I just...I'm not leaving you, but I do need some space.”

  
  


“Right,” John says, stepping back, rubbing both hands through his hair, “OK, space. A week?”

  
  


Greg nods.

  
  


“OK, a week, we can do a week.” John is nodding now even though the anger and panic are only receding very slowly. Just how the hell are they going to get out of this mess? But that, he thinks, is what the week is for.

  
  


Then, suddenly, Greg steps forward and pulls him into a bruising kiss, half anger, half desperation, lips smashed against teeth so hard he is surprised he isn't tasting blood. It only lasts a couple of seconds and then Greg is gone, the door slamming behind him.

  
  


  
  


  
  


When John comes into the living room, Sherlock looks at him, finally sets down the damn violin, and flops down onto the couch with an annoyed huff.

  
  


“How very pointless and irrational,” he remarks, staring intently at the ceiling. John would almost believe his air of detachment if he couldn't see quite clearly how strongly Sherlock has to press his fingertips together to mask the fine tremors running along his hands.

  
  


“Yeah,” John says tightly, “because you've been so wonderfully rational and mature about all this.” Abruptly, he can't stand being in the same room with Sherlock anymore and stomps up the stairs to his room.

  
  


He ends up packing a bag and notes to his surprise that Sherlock has followed him to loiter in the doorway.

  
  


“Where are you going?” he finally asks, as he watches John pack enough shirts and underwear for a week.

  
  


“Harry's,” John says shortly. He is still angry and worried. The look on Greg's face had not been good and he frankly does not relish the idea of not being able to talk to him about this for the next seven days.

  
  


He glares at Sherlock. “You can be an insensitive prick, you know that?”

  
  


Sherlock looks slightly contrite but makes a half-hearted attempt to defend himself. “You asked me to tell him the truth - ”

  
  


“Yeah, and you did. In the most provocative way possible. God, Sherlock, do you actually listen to yourself when you say these things?” Worry and annoyance are making his tone sharp and he can see Sherlock flinch a little. God, what a mess. What an awful mess they have made for themselves.

  
  


“Right,” he says finally, “I'll be at Harry's for the rest of the week. You can text me but I'm not always going to answer. And do me a favour and actually stay away from Greg for at least that long, yeah?”

  
  


Sherlock just nods and John leaves him there. He is feeling frustrated and guilty and utterly out of his depth.

  
  


  
  


  
  


One week later, they have each received about a hundred text messages from Sherlock. Greg feels a little bad for freezing the guy out, as Sherlock has never taken well to that sort of thing. At the same time, his own need for some quiet time alone had been non-negotiable.

  
  


Now, exactly two days after the week that felt like much more than a week has come to an end, Greg has John sitting at his kitchen table fidgeting in a way that makes him worry. Greg's stomach has been churning in anticipation, ever since John had called him the minute their week apart was up. Because the truth is? He hasn't come any closer to a solution that won't break the heart of at least one of them.

  
  


John has been staring into his tea mug for a while. Now, he looks up and Greg realises to his relief that John looks too elated, too upbeat for this to be a break-up. And then, John clears his throat and asks: “Greg, do you still love Sherlock?” making Greg startle out of his own thoughts.

  
  


The question is a little painful, especially right now. Greg's first impulse is to say “no”. There is an irrational, childish part of himself that insists that Sherlock is the man who has broken into his carefully arranged happiness with John, who has made things difficult where they were easy and joyful before.

  
  


But there are other feelings still alive and breathing underneath the resentment and the envy, Greg knows. He has loved Sherlock longer than he has known John, after all. Long before John appeared on the scene he had been captivated by the velocity and sharpness of Sherlock's mind, the unconventional beauty of his face. And yes, maybe by the painful neediness, the open wound that had been Sherlock at 25. Back then, he had decided to do his best to keep this extraordinary young man safe and on the straight and narrow, had tried to be both present and demanding enough to keep Sherlock's attention.

  
  


And so he nods.

  
  


John regards him thoughtfully for a moment. Then he licks his lips nervously, looks away and says hesitantly: “I was just thinking that maybe...the three of us. I don't know. But maybe I don't have to be in the middle of this?”

  
  


Oh, how Greg wishes that were still a possibility. He sighs and shakes his head. “I don't know, John. I think that ship has sailed. I turned him down _a lot_. And Sherlock's not a man who takes kindly to being humbled.”

  
  


John still looks thoughtful. “I don't know Greg, I wouldn't be so sure.”

  
  


Greg can feel surprise tugging at his eyebrows. “You wouldn't?”

  
  


He can maybe believe that Sherlock still harbours a remnant of his ancient crush on Greg but he has a really hard time imagining Sherlock telling John about it. Not exactly pillow talk, that.

  
  


John shrugs, licking his lips again. He looks a little anxious but determined as he explains. “I've been thinking about all of this a lot and...things didn't actually get too difficult until we told him about the holiday, you know.”

  
  


Greg has to admit that John has a point there.

  
  


“So,” John continues, “I think the reason he has been such a complete tit recently is that he feels shut out. You know Sherlock, he hates not being in the middle of everything.” Greg has to smile at that.

  
  


“And he likes you an awful lot, you know? He trusts you. And – are you really telling me you haven't noticed he sometimes looks at you like...”

  
  


“Like what?” Greg is really fucking curious now.

  
  


“Like he wants you, Greg!” John sounds a little impatient, as if Greg is being dreadfully slow. Huh. If what he says is true then maybe Greg hasn't been the only one fighting insecurities here. An interesting thought.

  
  


They sit in silence for a while and then Greg clears his throat and asks. “So, you're going to talk to him about this?”

  
  


John nods decisively. “Yeah, I think I will.”

  
  


“Huh.” Greg can feel nervous anticipation knot up his stomach but there is a glimmer of hope in there, too.

  
  


He hasn't allowed himself to think about the possibility of having Sherlock for a while. First there had been the complications of Sherlock's drug addiction and his own failing marriage and then John, who Sherlock fell for so hard he might have concussed himself.

  
  


He tries to imagine it, him and John and Sherlock, all together, no-one left out, enough love to set off a minor explosion or two. The thought makes something unknot in his belly, relief hovering close enough to touch, a smile stealing onto his face as he looks at John.

  
  


John smiles back.

  
  


If only Sherlock will say yes.


	11. As if it costs you nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _John is grinning broadly at him, now, and then leans forward and kisses him quickly on the mouth._
> 
>  
> 
> _“Go!” He says, forcefully, “Off with you! Go see if your fantasies can hold a candle to reality!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, the footnotes should be doing their hovering thing again (it takes time to code which is why I didn't manage it on Friday) and now when you click on them, you should be taken right to the end of the chapter where they are listed as well (in case you are using e-readers or something).

“Sherlock?” John says, interrupting Sherlock's contemplation of how he can improve his search algorithm for promising newspaper stories. “Can I come in? We need to talk.”

 

Sherlock looks over from where he is lying on his bed and realises John is standing in the door to his room. He inclines his head _Yes_ , his fingers still steepled under his chin. He can feel something like nervousness tingling in the joints of his fingers.

 

Things have been tense lately, ever since John got back from his extended stay in Harry's spare bedroom. Sherlock still feels a little hurt by that1 and doubly apprehensive because he isn't entirely sure what it was that he had done that had made both John and Greg so angry. The thought that he has the power to drive John away, to make him leave, makes his hands clammy and produces a feeling of nausea that is more than a little unpleasant. He had sent Sherlock one simple text every day, reading _I love you_ , but beyond that there had been next to no contact at all. It had assuaged his fears that John was leaving him entirely somewhat, but he had still been unutterably relieved when John had returned two days ago.

 

Now, John comes in and sits down on the edge of the bed so that he can look Sherlock right in the face. He looks... Sherlock isn't entirely sure what the look on John's face means and that is so rare these days that it makes him perk up and take notice. There is apprehension there, like they are going to have a conversation John would rather avoid but he looks excited2 and hopeful, too. Sherlock feels his nervous anticipation diminish as curiosity takes over. What could possibly have happened at Lestrade's3 that would leave John looking like this?

 

But John just sits there, studying Sherlock so that he finally sits up against the headboard and raises an eyebrow. “Yes, John? What is it?”

 

John purses his lips, the way he always does when he is contemplating whether or not he wants to say something that's on his mind. Then he clears his throat and says: “I'm not the only one of us who's in love with Greg, right?”

 

Sherlock stares, nonplussed for a moment. At first he thinks John is talking about somebody else, maybe telling him that someone at the Yard has fallen in love with Lestrade, too. But the way John is looking at him now, with a hint of amusement as if they are sharing a joke, leaves no doubt that John is talking about _him_.

 

“Um.” Sherlock says.

 

He is unsure of what the protocol is in situations such as these. John seems relaxed, even joyful at the moment4, but will he take offence if Sherlock admits to his embarrassing and unreciprocated crush on Lestrade? Will he assume that they are in competition? Sherlock has absolutely no desire to add to the tension between them.

 

He thinks some of the confusion must show on his face because John pats him on the arm gently and says: “It's OK if you are, you know. It's not like I can't sympathise.”

 

Right, then. Sherlock blinks, nods and holds his breath. To his surprise John's smile broadens, his eyes crinkling with what looks like happiness.

 

Sherlock is relieved but baffled.

 

Before John, Lestrade was the first person Sherlock had ever met who showed delight at his deductive abilities rather than fearing them. It was unexpected and fascinating to find himself taken seriously, to be looked at with admiration. Sherlock soon became as addicted to impressing Lestrade as he was to cocaine at the time, craving his attention and preening under his praise. And then, when he slipped up and tried to arrest a subject by himself, too high to adequately calculate the risks, Lestrade ...well. Set boundaries, Sherlock supposes.

 

Not just boundaries, _walls_. Greg Lestrade is the most commanding person Sherlock knows. Probably, he reflects, because he is the first person Sherlock has ever met who denies things out of love rather than spite. Who is firm in the punishments he metes out, but without any hint of sadistic pleasure at it. Sherlock has always perceived rules, at best, as tedious obstacles and, at worst, as instruments of torture put in place by people who feel intimidated by his intellect and hate him for his difference.

 

Lestrade, on the other hand, used his hold over Sherlock to create a world that was slightly more ordered, slightly less risky, the boundaries he erected giving Sherlock something to hold on to as he fought against the neurochemical dependencies of his brain. Was it any wonder he fell hard for the man?

 

But why would that make John happy? Experimentally, Sherlock clears his throat now and nods again. “Yes,” he says, finally, surprised at how even his voice sounds, “I think you could say that I am in love with him, too.”

 

Now, John is positively beaming. “I thought so,” he says, “that is brilliant.”

 

Sherlock is utterly nonplussed. “It is?”5

 

John nods. “Oh yes! Because, see, Greg loves you, too.”

 

“What?” Sherlock is aware his voice has suddenly gone sharp but the surprise is too great and calls up too many painful memories. He snorts and shakes his head. “John, I assure you, he isn't. He is really, really not.”6

 

“Well,” John says carefully, obviously noticing the bitterness that has crept into Sherlock's voice, “considering he just _told_ me that he loves you, I would say that just this once, you got it wrong.”

 

Sherlock jumps up, agitation now humming along his bones as he paces the room, shaking his head. “No, John,” he tries to explain, “he...no.”

 

Sherlock should know.

 

He still remembers the very first time he approached Lestrade in this regard. He had been out of rehab for three months, stable enough that Lestrade had deigned to work with him again. They had just concluded a case and Sherlock had looked at Lestrade, who was standing at his desk, flushed with excitement, shirt rumpled and hair messy from spending a night at work. He had looked utterly delectable and Sherlock had leaned over to kiss him. It was something that had been brewing at the back of his mind for a while at the time: that he wanted to kiss Lestrade, wanted to put his hands on his hips and pull him forward, wanted to get searingly close. During the time in rehab he had imagined it more than once, had wanted Lestrade's kind and intelligent eyes to wander over every centimetre of his body, had wanted to consume him, ingest his strength and calm. The first moment of the kiss had been wonderful, Lestrade's lips warm and dry under his, his mouth soft and giving. For a second Sherlock hoped that Lestrade would open his mouth, would kiss him back.

 

Instead he placed a firm hand on Sherlock's chest and pushed him away. The look in his eyes was unmistakably apologetic but decisive as he shook his head. “I'm sorry, Sherlock,” he said, “but no. _No_.”

 

Sherlock wanted to insist, to use the leftover energy and thrill still thrumming in both of them to insist, to press Lestrade against the wall and just _take_. But he knew even then that that would be unforgivable, knew the inflexibility of Lestrade when he had made up his mind, the fiercely ethical way he approached sexual encounters. And so he turned around and walked away, head held high, determined not to show the slightest sign of the disappointment cramping his stomach.

 

He has come to a stop, staring at the carpet in front of him, hands tucked into his trouser pockets, as he relives every single painful put-down he forced out of Lestrade with his continued advances.7

 

He kept trying because it was obvious, was so _clear_ at the time that Lestrade wanted him, too. Sherlock tried to tempt him, leaned close still smelling of sweat and sex after a night at a club, wore deliberately tight jeans and shirts. He relished every second of Lestrade's reaction: when he ended up staring at Sherlock's lips or arse, when he took a moment too long to move out of Sherlock's space, when he inhaled sharply as Sherlock crowded him 'accidentally'.

 

And yet, he never once reacted the way Sherlock really wanted him to. Not even when tipsy or high on sleep deprivation after a particularly difficult and successful case. Whenever Sherlock overstepped the line of plausible deniability, Greg politely but firmly turned him down.

 

“Sherlock?” He must have got a little lost in his memories, his attention leaving John for unforgivable seconds, because John is suddenly standing right in front of him, tugging Sherlock's hands out of his pockets and interlacing their fingers.

 

“Sherlock, come on, talk to me.” He sounds concerned now but when Sherlock looks at him there are still traces of his earlier happiness lurking around the eyes. Happy is a good look on John, Sherlock thinks.

 

He grimaces and shrugs. “John, I have in the past...propositioned Lestrade. And it...it didn't go well. He turned me down. Emphatically.” It is embarrassing, no, humiliating, to admit and he can feel himself blush, but John just nods, not fazed in the slightest.

 

“Yeah, I know.” He says unconcernedly, as if Sherlock had just told him they were out of milk. Come to think of it, the absence of milk usually produces more of a reaction.

 

“You know?” Sherlock asks, surprised8. “Then why would you – ”

 

“Because that was a long time ago, Sherlock. Things have _changed_.” John sounds absolutely certain about this, his eyes vividly blue and intense as he insists. Sherlock can't prevent hope from raising its cautious head.

 

“I think...” John pauses for a moment, frowning. “That was at the very beginning, right? When you had just met?”

 

“After I had been through rehab,” Sherlock clarifies, now utterly confused, “yes.”

 

John nods, looking at him fondly despite the one line still creasing his brow. “Yeah, that's what I thought. Look, you really need to talk about this with Greg. But I'm sure that the problem wasn't that he didn't want you back then.”

 

Sherlock can feel his features contort in self-loathing against his will. “No,” he admits, “that was never the problem. The problem is that he thinks I am too...” Once again he flounders, a million words crowding on the top of his tongue at the same time. Broken? Immature? Disgusting? Freakish?

 

But John interrupts him before he can select one of them. “I think that at the time he felt you weren't up for it. Not...stable enough. Not for anything more than a working relationship. He was _concerned_ for you. Also, you were already jealous of his wife. And not exactly nice about it.”

 

That last bit is a little too pointed for Sherlock's comfort but he tries not to let it show. He can feel the old resentment towards Annie rise to the surface again. She, with her boring job, her tedious dresses and pathetic domesticity, had been allowed to have what he had been denied. It had been...wrong.

 

“But,” John continues, tugging at Sherlock's hands a little to emphasise his point, “these things change, Sherlock,” he repeats, “you aren't the same kid you were back then.”

 

“He...Lestrade said that?” Sherlock can't help the incredulity in his voice, the doubt that is creasing his forehead. He has imagined this scenario too often, has wanted it for too long. He has to be sure.

 

John nods. “He...he _loves_ you, Sherlock. He really does. And, hell, he wants you. I'm pretty sure he has wanted you for a while. Or, you know, has wanted to _do_ something about wanting you for a while.”

 

Sherlock frowns, still unwilling to give up the carefully nursed feeling of rejection quite yet. “But that doesn't make any sense. Why wouldn't he simply do it?9”

 

John's smile now is rueful. “I think that might be partly my fault. I mean, me moving in happened at the same time he and Annie got the divorce. And I think...I think he didn't want to complicate things. Between the two of us,” he clarifies, using their joined hands to gesture back and forth between Sherlock and himself.

 

“Oh,” Sherlock says, feeling his eyes widen in surprise. Is it possible that Lestrade had seen the attraction between him and John before they had? Considering his own hateful blind spot in this regard it is entirely possible. Looking back, it doesn't seem terribly surprising that somebody besides them had noticed the sparks John had struck off of him from the very first.

 

“Yeah,” John says, and the amusement is back in his voice, his face soft with humour and joy. “ _Oh._ ” He smiles and squeezes Sherlock's fingers. “I...I think you should go and talk to him. In fact, why don't you go over to his place right now. Maybe take your toothbrush, you know.”

 

Sherlock's breath hisses into him sharply when he realises what John is saying. He feels light-headed and off-balance, as if, for once, his brain has trouble keeping up. Which is ridiculous, the facts of the situation are laughably simple. But it seems like the accompanying emotions are taking up all his processing power.

 

John is grinning broadly at him, now, and then leans forward and kisses him quickly on the mouth.

 

“Go!” He says, forcefully, “Off with you! Go see if your fantasies can hold a candle to reality!”

 

He sounds so sincere and happy that Sherlock has to pull him in again and kiss him deeply for a moment before he turns around, grabs his coat and heads out the door.

 

 

 

He flags own a cab almost instantly and then sits in the back, his leg jiggling and his fingers dancing over his thigh in nervous anticipation.10

 

One part of his mind is occupied with sorting through all the hopes and fantasies he has had over the years, trying to assess their relative probabilities in the current situation.11

 

Another is circling in wonder around the idea that John seems not to feel any jealousy at all, seems to be positively beaming with happiness at the thought of Sherlock and Lestrade together. How can John be so sure of himself? But unlike Sherlock, John has a gravity that anchors him. It both attracts Sherlock and makes him slightly envious of a grounding so profound.

 

Still another part of his brain is trying to convince him that this is nothing but an elaborate sham, a cruel trick that John and Lestrade are playing on him. At the same time he is aware that these are grown men and not the immature and thoughtlessly cruel people he went to university with. No, he decides, vindictiveness is not in either of their natures. Both John and Lestrade care deeply about other people12, maybe even too much, so that they are likely to run themselves ragged out of concern.

 

In many ways, he thinks for roughly the 456th time since his return, it is absolutely no wonder at all that these two have found each other. They seem to fit together, to be good for one another in a way Sherlock feels is somewhat outside his grasp. While he was away, it was a relief and a reassurance to know that neither Lestrade nor John were entirely on their own. That they were keeping each other safe while he was far away and enmeshed in violence. It was painful to feel that contentment morph into jealousy, to feel that helpless, childish twinge he had felt whenever John came back from a day spent with Lestrade13 looking happy and at ease, whenever Lestrade's face lit up at a simple text message from John while they were on a case. The fear of being extraneous to their lives was almost paralysing in its intensity, making him selfish and hurtful. To realise that it was unfounded, that there might be room for him in Lestrade's life as well as John's, that neither of them wanted to shut him out, that they, in fact, wanted him closer than he had ever dared hope, feels like the best kind of high he has ever experienced.

 

The cab jolts to a halt outside the block of flats where Lestrade lives and abruptly Sherlock's contemplations are replaced by the images that have long dominated his dreams and half-awake fantasies. As he pays the cabbie and then makes his way over to the flats, as he leans heavily on the doorbell while he waits for Lestrade to buzz him in, his subconscious keeps hurling pictures at him that have his heart racing and his skin prickling with sweat: of Lestrade kissing him, slow and deep and languorous, of himself on his knees, Lestrade's dick firm and heavy in his mouth, of Lestrade over him as he shoves apart Sherlock's legs so he can get close, so close that – the buzzer sounds and Sherlock bounds up the stairs two at a time.

 

 

 

When his doorbell sounds with the prolonged and insistent ringing that always announces Sherlock in a state of agitation, Greg is almost done with tidying his flat. It's a ridiculous impulse, he knows, it's not like Sherlock cares about the orderliness of anybody's living room.

 

But Greg can't help the fact that he is nervous. Doubt and hope have been warring in his head and making him jittery, ever since John's text informed him that Sherlock was on his way. What if John is wrong? Will he have an enraged Sherlock on his doorstep, demanding to know how Greg can overestimate himself so ludicrously? Will this be the thing that draws the tension between the three of them into knots that are, in the end, too painful to bear?

 

It's not that he doesn't trust John, but he has always been puzzled by people's attraction to him and there is a part of him that insists that if Sherlock and John can have each other they will surely not want to bother with him. Sherlock has changed remarkably in the last five years and Greg is all too aware that that is due to John's influence. It has made him happy to see Sherlock so centred and obviously in love. At the same time it has been a little painful to realise that there is no way he could compete with the intensity of these two, just as he had felt himself free to pursue his own attraction to Sherlock for the first time in years.

 

And then a stab of wild joy and hope stops his breath for a moment as he realises that instead of him having to leave these two beautiful and fascinating young men to their own romance, there is a real chance that both of them do in fact want him to be a part of their story. That they want _him_.

 

He takes a deep breath and buzzes Sherlock in.

 

 

Their first kiss should be clumsy and desperate, Sherlock thinks, because there is a straining and impatience in him, now that he realises that this might actually be within his grasp.

 

He is very nearly right: The door to Lestrade's flat is standing open and Sherlock pushes through it impatiently, only to find Lestrade in the living room, folding a blanket.14 Two quick steps bring him right into Lestrade's personal space and he takes the man by the collar and shoves him against the nearest wall, blanket fluttering down, impatience and need making him rough.

 

As soon as Lestrade's back hits the wall, Sherlock dives in and – just stops himself.

 

This is as far as he has come in the past and this is where Lestrade has usually stopped him, but this time around there are no strong hands pushing him away. Instead, Lestrade growls out “Oh God, yes,” and leans forward hungrily, to take Sherlock's mouth in a kiss that is fierce and more than a little rough. There is a hand on his waist and another around his neck, pulling him in tight and then they are surging against each other almost brutally. There is nothing clumsy about it, however, Lestrade is devouring Sherlock's mouth with ruthless efficiency.

 

Then, abruptly, Lestrade uses the hold he has on Sherlock's body to flip him around and suddenly it is Sherlock who is pressed up against the wall.

 

Lestrade laughs a little at Sherlock's surprise and then grips both of his wrists, bringing them up and pressing them into the rough texture of the wallpaper on either side of Sherlock's head.

 

Sherlock moans and Lestrade chuckles as he evades the greedy attempts of Sherlock's mouth to recapture his lips. “Impatient, are we?” He seems pleased, the tiny wrinkles around his eyes crinkling with amusement and just a hint of satisfaction.

 

Sherlock glares. Of course he is impatient! He has waited for this for so long, has wanted Lestrade for what seems like aeons15. “Don't tease,” he hisses, “you don't have the light touch for it. Now, get back here and kiss me already, or I - ”

 

“Or you what, Sherlock?” Lestrade is leaning in close again, his hands still on Sherlock's wrists on either side of his head. They stare at each other for a moment and Sherlock realises that there is no way to finish that sentence. He has nothing he can withhold from Lestrade without equal disadvantage to himself16, no real hold over him since what Sherlock wants more than anything right now is Lestrade himself. His attention, his presence, the return of his hands to Sherlock's body.

 

He remains silent, too stubborn to say this out loud but unwilling to make empty threats. Lestrade grins and leans forward to whisper into his ear: “That's what I thought. You aren't in charge here, Sherlock. This isn't a case.”

 

Sherlock has to fight a shudder at that, the realisation hitting him that Lestrade is just as aware of the dynamic of their relationship as Sherlock is. On a case, Lestrade will do whatever Sherlock asks, respect his expertise and make sure Sherlock has all the resources he needs, to the point of becoming his dogsbody.

 

This, however, is not a case and Lestrade has just made it abundantly clear that, here, Sherlock has no power over Lestrade whatsoever. A part of him instantly bristles at that, making him want to rear up and assert his dominance or, at the very least, his imperviousness to Lestrade's authority.

 

But it has always been like this between them, outside of the special environment of a case: Lestrade leads and Sherlock follows. It has been like this since Sherlock, high and bored out of his mind, stumbled across one of Lestrade's crime scenes and helped him solve the case over thirteen years in the past. Afterwards, Lestrade bullied him into eating a warm meal and then into coming home with him, much to Annie's annoyance.

 

At the time, three years out of uni and still unemployed, Sherlock was in a bad way. Several of his professors had begged him to stay on for a Ph.D. but he found the idea of confining himself to a single discipline and, worse, to a single research project stifling and desperately dull. As a result he had found himself at a loose end. He did the odd job for Mycroft but the idea of working under his brother's supervision was more than he could bear and so he spent much of his time restlessly prowling the streets and trying to speed the world up to a more bearable velocity through cocaine.

 

He would be the first to admit that what had started out as a simple experiment in controlled self-medication had soon spiralled out of his grasp, leaving him obsessed with procuring the next hit while still recovering from the last. He had neglected his surroundings and his personal care and as a result had been kicked out of several flats. By the time he met Lestrade, he was living in a mouldy, dark basement room with a door that could only be shut with violence.

 

Lestrade was something sharp and radiant in a world that had become unpleasantly dull and predictable and Sherlock felt himself drawn to this fiercely ethical man and his gruff affection, wanting to feel the protective mantle of Lestrade's discipline settle around himself. Even back then, Lestrade's leadership had been both incontrovertible and obviously cut with caring for those he was responsible for.

 

The same pull to _yield_ is still there, still irresistible after all this time, mixed now with years of lusting after the man from a distance. Sherlock exhales slowly, deliberately forcing his muscles to relax and lowering his eyes, wordlessly signaling his acceptance of Lestrade's statement. Right here, right now, he is not in charge.

 

It takes less than a second for Lestrade to react and suddenly Sherlock's hands are free and there is a finger under his chin, forcing him to look up. Lestrade's eyes are warm and a little concerned as he scrutinises Sherlock's face.

 

“You alright, mate? You looked like you were kind of far away there for a second.”

 

Sherlock swallows and nods, unable to stand Lestrade's direct gaze, his gaze fastening on the side of Lestrade's nose. “I was just thinking,” he says, because he feels that Lestrade has a right to know, “about when we first met.” Lestrade remains silent, waiting for Sherlock to go on. “You took me home,” he continues, fighting the impulse to wet his lips. It's not like he is telling Lestrade anything he doesn't already know. He has no reason to suddenly feel nervous.17 “I spent the night and I - ” _I wanted you so much, even then_ , is what he wants to say but there is suddenly a lump in his throat that makes it hard to breathe.

 

“You wanted to fuck,” Lestrade says, “yes I know. But Sherlock, you have to know why I couldn't, why back then - ”

 

“I was a junkie and a mess, yes,” Sherlock interrupts him, his voice deliberately cutting. He cannot bear to hear Lestrade say it, to have his own spectacular failure, his unpardonable loss of control spelled out for him.

 

Lestrade is frowning now, as if he disagrees. Which is utterly ludicrous. “Sherlock, you were 25 and yes, your life was a mess. But not _you_.”

 

“Oh, save it, Lestrade. We both know you wouldn't have touched me with a ten-foot pole back then.”

 

“Sherlock!” Lestrade's voice is sharp, making Sherlock's eyes snap back to the man's face, but when he continues that almost unbearable gentleness is back. “I couldn't touch you back then. Hell, I would never have forgiven myself if I had. You were an addict, for God's sake. You were one step away from living on the streets and you were going mental because not one of the stupid fuckers around you was smart enough to see _you_. To see how special you are. How important.”

 

The words do something to Sherlock that feels strange and almost dangerous, taking his carefully cherished ideas of the past and subtly turning them on their head.

 

“You were, hell, you still are...important to me,” Lestrade repeats. “and I would never have forgiven myself if I had taken advantage of you like that. Do you understand?”

 

 _Taken advantage?_ Sherlock almost laughs but doesn't dare to, a little afraid of what else might come out of his mouth.

 

And then: “You...you _matter_ , Sherlock,” Lestrade says almost imploringly, and the words somehow manage to hurt more than any insult.18 “You're, I don't know, you're...rare and you're wonderful and you - ” Lestrade pauses for a moment as if looking for the right words. For once, Sherlock has absolutely no idea what they might be, “you deserved somebody looking out for you back then.”

 

Suddenly, Sherlock cannot stand the distance between them for even one more second and he reaches out, placing a hand on Lestrade's shoulder and tugging. Lestrade comes easily, stepping even closer. This time as they kiss, it is careful and soft. Lestrade puts one hand on Sherlock's hip, fingering the fabric of his shirt with the other. _You are precious_ , his hands are saying as they unbutton Sherlock's shirt oh so carefully. _You are deserving of protection_ Lestrade's, no, Greg's body is saying as he presses himself up against Sherlock, a barrier between him and all potential harm. _You are breakable_ , his fingers are saying as they trace over Sherlock's skin as delicately as one touches ancient glassware, and _I will make sure no harm comes to you_. Sherlock is afraid he might cry as his convictions tumble down about him like a house of cards, making way for the truth.

 

He buries his face in the crook of Greg's neck, and then the pad of Greg's thumb is on his left nipple, rubbing gently but continuously. The sensation it produces is somewhere between a tickle and an electric current, slowly and inexorably turning from an almost innocent caress into a source of erotic pleasure that goes straight to his dick.

 

Sherlock rubs his face against Greg's shoulder, his breath starting to come in shallow, short puffs as arousal mixes with the feeling of vulnerability. He lifts his head, turning to face the man who is so carefully taking him apart. He leans in, eager to get his mouth back on this wonderful mouth, the old desire to bite and lick and ravish making a reappearance.

 

This time, their kiss deepens quickly, until it is all open mouths and clashing teeth. They are shoving and pushing against each other relentlessly now, pulling at each other's clothes, eager to get their hands on warm skin.

 

Sherlock's hands are greedy as he slides them up under the vest the man insists on wearing, his fingertips wanting to map out every bit of that glorious skin.

 

Then Greg's hands land on his arse and _squeeze_ and Sherlock gasps as his whole body suddenly pulls taut, his hips snapping forwards against Greg's.

 

He pulls away, panting, and takes a moment to admire Greg's eyes that have gone a deep brown and the dishevelled state of his hair. Sherlock leans in and presses their lips together once, forcefully and then shoves him around towards the bedroom.

 

They stumble through the door in a flurry of clothing, neither of them patient enough to wait for the other to undress him. Within moments they are on Greg's bed, finally naked. Sherlock is lying on his side, Greg pressed up flush against him. They are rutting together and grabbing, squeezing, biting as if frenzied. Greg thrusts a leg between Sherlock's and Sherlock moans appreciatively, his erection sliding against the hairs on Greg's belly with a drag that is good but not enough.

 

“Jesus, Sherlock,” Greg gasps, “You are killing me here. I, I – oh God!”

 

Sherlock notices with satisfaction that Greg's voice has gone high and unsteady as Sherlock fumbles to get a good grip on his cock. It feels silky and hot in his hand, the tip slightly sticky and Greg groans deeply as Sherlock begins to wank him in the way he has so often imagined. It seems only a moment, though, before Greg stops his hand and pants into his ear: “I really want to fuck you and if you keep that up...”

 

He doesn't need to finish the sentence, Sherlock immediately stills his hand and then pushes Greg onto his back as he scrambles at the drawer of the bedside table.

 

“How the hell did you know – never mind,” Greg interrupts himself, “are you gonna do it yourself or do you want me to do it?”

 

Normally Sherlock would relish the idea of being spread out under Greg's hands, of being the centre of his attention, of being opened up and prepared carefully. Right now, however, he is much too impatient.

 

Instead, he throws the condom packet at Greg and lies back against the headboard as he coats his own fingers with the lubricant. He bites his lips at the pleasurable feeling of intrusion as he pushes two fingers into himself, stretching himself quickly and efficiently. There is something obscene about preparing himself for Greg's use in this way and Sherlock does not bother to hold back his gasps and groans.

 

He looks up and over to Greg who is kneeling next to him now, dick jutting out and sheathed in the condom. His eyes are hungry as he watches Sherlock intently and then he reaches out for the lubricant, squirting a generous amount along the length of his cock.

 

“You look amazing,” Greg whispers, starting to fist himself, and Sherlock can feel himself blush at the praise. He opens his legs a little wider to give Greg a better view of his fingers disappearing into his arse, snaking his hips down on every thrust of his hand. By the way Greg quickens his hand and exhales sharply on every down stroke, he thinks he has succeeded. Greg's lips are bright red, as if he has been biting them and he is panting, the muscles in his stomach clenching rhythmically as he pushes up into his hand.

 

Then, Sherlock has enough of teasing and waiting. “I really think you should fuck me now,” he says and Greg nods emphatically.

 

He draws his fingers out carefully and moves down so that he is lying flat on his back, one leg bent up and outwards slightly. Greg carefully positions himself over Sherlock, the tip of his dick pressing against him. He leans forward for a kiss that is dirty and eager, and then he uses his hand to position himself just right and presses in.

 

Sherlock has to close his eyes and breathe through his nose as he is painstakingly forced open around Greg's dick, unwilling to let loose the whine that is trying to push out of his throat. He has always enjoyed penetration, it is true, but this is more than just the response of his nerve endings to pleasurable stimulus. He feels greedy for the closeness that having Greg inside of him provides, his hands reaching out as if of their own accord to draw him even deeper inside. He wants to feel taken and owned and held dear, the emotions and physical sensations feeding off each other in crazed spirals.

 

Finally, Greg stills as he bottoms out and for a moment they stay like this. Sherlock is still flat on his back, now gripping the sheets to anchor himself as wave after wave of intensity threatens to carry him away.

 

Greg is splayed above him, head hanging low as he breathes deeply and deliberately, as if trying to restrain himself. That is wrong, Sherlock thinks, he doesn't want Greg restrained, wants him uncontrolled and shameless, wants to see that he is not alone in his almost unbearable desire to connect, to consume.

 

He brings one of his legs up, wrapping it around Greg's waist and presses him insistently closer. In response, Greg begins to move and Sherlock loses any sense of dignity or poise. It feels so good to be fucked like this, to have Greg deep inside him, as intimately as humanly possible, that he makes no effort to hold back any of his gasps and moans.

 

Then, Greg changes the angle slightly and Sherlock cannot stop himself, he _keens_ , a high, needy sound and wraps both legs around Greg's waist, tightly, holding on for dear life. Greg is pounding into Sherlock relentlessly now, gasping and hissing, twisting his hips to rub his cock against Sherlock's inner walls in a way that sends silvery currents of pleasure all over his body. He is staring down at Sherlock intently, as if unwilling to miss even the subtlest of reactions and Sherlock feels as if the world has become narrow and brilliant, confined to the intensity of their gaze and the coupling of their frantic bodies. Sherlock is writhing against the sheets, rolling his head back and forth on the pillow, the sensations almost too much and yet not quite enough.

 

Then, Greg suddenly breaks eye-contact, leans down, licks over one of Sherlock's nipples and _bites_.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock hisses, “yes, harder.”

 

“Oh, Jesus,” Greg groans, but he does it again, harder this time and Sherlock can feel his balls draw up tight. “Come on,” he insists, “fuck me harder, Greg, come on.”

 

Greg huffs out a breath that is half amused and half incredulous, but he resettles his weight and starts to pound up into Sherlock in earnest now, making him yell out with every snap of his hips.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock gasps out, “yes, yes, yes, yes!” And then he can feel it, a vibration that starts at the base of his spine and shakes his whole body apart, making him shout out wordlessly as he comes so intensely he almost blacks out.

 

“God, Sherlock,” Greg grunts, holding still with what looks like a supreme effort of will when Sherlock opens his eyes again, staring up blearily, “you _are_ going to kill me.” Sherlock smiles at that because they both know how ludicrous a statement it is. Greg Lestrade is not easily damaged.

 

“Do you need me to pull out?” Greg gasps out, his breath coming in short little pants and Sherlock draws in a deep breath and tries to force his vocal cords back into working order. In the end he just shakes his head and croaks out “No, keep going, please, keep going,” and to his relief, Greg does.

 

Being penetrated like this feels different, everything over-sensitive and raw without the sharp spike of his own building orgasm, but Sherlock still feels pleasure shoot through him at every push of Greg's hips and relishes the feeling of being filled over and over again.

 

And then Greg growns low and long, his whole body seizing up as he comes inside Sherlock. There is something beautiful about seeing him come apart like that, his eyes wide, his mouth opening in a surprised “oh” as he stares down into Sherlock's eyes as his whole body is racked by shudders.

 

Sherlock lifts a hand up to cup Greg's cheek in the palm of his hand, feeling the sweat-slickness of his skin, his fingertips grazing the pulse which is still dancing crazily in Greg's neck.

 

Greg's face looks open and vulnerable for a moment, in a way that Sherlock has never quite seen before and he bends up and kisses him deeply, suddenly filled with tenderness for this man who has been a steady and loving presence in his life for so long.

 

Then Greg pulls out of him gently and collapses on his back, chest still heaving as he sucks in breath after breath. After a moment, Sherlock recovers enough to get up, the tackiness of the lubricant uncomfortable between his thighs. He gives himself a quick wash at the sink, Greg joining him after a few moments. He comes up behind Sherlock, hooking his head over Sherlock's shoulder, both arms encircling his waist.

 

Their eyes meet in the mirror and Greg smiles, openly and happily. Sherlock can feel an answering smile on his own face and he reaches down to place one of his hands over Greg's. They look good together, he thinks, dark hair mingling with grey, Greg's tanned skin a beautiful bronze colour against Sherlock's almost unhealthy paleness.

 

He turns around and Greg puts both hands on Sherlock's shoulders, ducking in for a brief kiss. “Come on, back to bed,” he murmurs, the vibrations of his voice pleasant against Sherlock's lips.

 

Sherlock sprawls out contentedly, but Greg rummages in his trousers and comes back with his phone, a cheerful grin on his face.

 

“I really think we should let John know how it went,” he says as he clambers up to join Sherlock, “don't you think?”

 

“A thank-you note might be in order, yes,” Sherlock agrees, the wonder coming back that it was John who saw things for what they were when Sherlock was lost in the labyrinth of his own jealousy. John is perfect and brilliant.

 

They arrange themselves so that Greg has a reasonable chance of capturing both of them on his mobile, Sherlock's head coming to rest on his chest, Greg's arm wrapped around his shoulders. They take the picture and Greg sends it off, tossing the phone on the night stand when he is done.

 

He doesn't move away from Sherlock, however, instead bringing his hand up to trail his fingers lightly through Sherlock's hair. Sherlock feels like a contented cat, languorous and happy, one arm wrapped around Greg's waist, his whole body relaxing under the expert caresses.

 

“I love you,” Greg suddenly whispers, as if it is the most natural thing in the world. There is a ringing silence in Sherlock's head for a moment, and he can feel the tears crowding close again, and swallows angrily against them. Why this man's love affects him so, he doesn't know – but yes, he does. Greg Lestrade is a good man, a beautiful man in the true sense of the word. It has nothing to do with physical attractiveness and everything to do with the way that he is currently holding Sherlock close, carefully but securely, one hand still stroking Sherlock's hair in rhythm with his breathing.

 

“I love you too,” Sherlock answers quietly, glad that his face is hidden from Greg just now. It is hard enough to feel this right now, to bear this intensity and closeness without pulling away. Sherlock does not think he can stand being observed like this. Greg gives his shoulders a brief squeeze and presses a kiss to the top of Sherlock's head.

 

They fall asleep like this, Sherlock safe in Greg's arms, his ear over Greg's heartbeat.

 

 

 

Footnotes:

1)More than a little if he is entirely truthful. Being denied contact with John or even Lestrade had stung a lot more than he had anticipated.

 

2)His heartbeat elevated above the usual

 

3)John is carrying a whiff of the other man's cologne around on his shirt collar.

 

4)His shoulders are comfortably asymmetric, tilted towards the floor because he has one leg curled under him on the bed and his voice is a little lower than usual, at his optimal range.

 

5)He examines what John could mean by this. Is it good because it gives them something more in common? Sherlock is not going to help John write embarrassing emails to Lestrade, that's for sure.

 

6)He is not because of all the ways he has turned Sherlock down over the years, because he chose John rather than Sherlock, because –

 

7)Out of the corner of his eye he can see John beginning to look worried, a tiny crease appearing between his eyebrows.

 

8)He files this away for further consideration at a later date. Is it possible that John and Lestrade talked about _him_ when John saw Lestrade just now?

 

9)Because it is not true, a nasty little voice says, because he would never really want you.

 

10)The cab is roughly 14 years old and has been in 6 accidents (2 minor, 4 causing substantial damage), the cabbie takes good care of it because it is the only way he can ensure being able to support his second oldest daughter at university (the first in the family to get a degree).

 

11)Chance of Lestrade pressing him against a wall and kissing him: 68%, chance of Lestrade insisting they take it slow: 32%, chance of Lestrade fucking Sherlock at the end of the night: 74%, chance of Sherlock fucking Lestrade: 58%

 

12)Apparently including him, a little voice reminds him. The thought is too big to contemplate at the moment, so he files it away for later.

 

13)Without Sherlock

 

14)The idiot has cleaned and tidied in anticipation, Sherlock notices idly, as if he was expecting an inspection rather than a shag.

 

15)11 years, 4 months and 12 days, to be exact

 

16)Or greater disadvantage, really. Withholding his body right now, withholding his help on cases, would be cutting his nose off to spite his face and John has made it very, very clear that Sherlock has no right or power to withhold him.

 

17) _Shy_ his mind corrects him, sounding hatefully like Mycroft

 

18)The part of his brain that never stops cataloguing these things notices that the pain is more akin to the feeling of removing a too-tight belt that has had time to cut into his circulation, more reminiscent of blood rushing back where it belongs, than tissue being damaged.


	12. Journeys end in lovers' meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third leg of the triangle has finally snapped into place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here our journey ends! At least in regard to part II of this series. There will be a part III but it will likely take a little longer since I've just started a new job.
> 
> It has been a pleasure to follow along with you awesome people as you discover my story and I hope you enjoyed the reading as much as I did the writing!

He checks it immediately, a little worried that things might not be going quite as well as he is hoping they are. When he sees the picture Greg has just sent him, though, he can't help the ridiculously broad smile that splits his face: It's blurry and obviously taken by Greg holding the phone up over him and Sherlock in one unsteady hand. It shows both of them rumpled, happy and flushed among the wrecked sheets of Greg's bed, quite obviously exhausted from what seems to have been a pretty successful shag.

 

John feels like a weight is lifting off his chest as he contemplates the picture. Both Greg and Sherlock look so happy and he can feel his own happiness kindle at the sight.

 

Recently he has all too often felt like the bone of contention between them, like the fulcrum through which all animosity and tension passes in their strange little triad. But now the third leg of the triangle has finally snapped into place and John can already feel the way it grounds them. Sherlock and Greg have danced around each other for too long, spent too much time caring for each other from a distance and seeing them finally act on it is nothing short of fantastic.

 

At the same time, John has had some doubts about his own place in their relationship once Sherlock is allowed to act out his long-time crush, once Greg gets to have what he has so long desired from the sidelines. And the fact that they are thinking of him right now, in the immediate aftermath of their lovemaking tells him clear as anything that he needn't have worried. If it wasn't for the fact that such behaviour is frowned upon in A&E doctors, he would scream for joy.

 

In fact, he is grinning so broadly the entire two hours his shift still lasts that one of the nurses finally asks him if he is high. John sniggers and shakes his head, momentarily tempted to reassure the man that “Everything is brilliant, mate, it's just that my boyfriends are finally fucking each other, too”.

 

 

When he gets home, he finds both of them in the living room, Sherlock idly plucking the strings of his violin as he is sprawled in one of the armchairs and Greg standing in front of the fireplace, trying to decipher the Christmas card written in code Mycroft sent them last year.

 

He looks up when John enters the room and smiles, his stance easy and relaxed, his eyes dancing with amusement at John's breathless state. He hadn't exactly run home from the tube but it was a close thing. “Hey,” he says, voice deep and fond, “how was work?”

 

“Oh, good,” John says, throwing his jacket over the other armchair and joining Greg. “The usual, you know. And then some complete nutter sent me a picture of him and my boyfriend shagging, so that was nice.”

 

Greg raises an eyebrow. “Really, now? Maybe you should have a word with the bloke,” he suggests, leaning back against the wall with a provocative tilt of his hips. “Tell him what you think of that sort of behaviour.”

 

“Oh, believe me, I am planning to,” John says, stepping closer and leaning in, “in fact I am going to show him.” And with that he takes Greg's head in both hands and kisses him forcefully, giddy with elation and relief.

 

When he steps back, Greg's face is a little flushed and his shirt rumpled where John had gripped him by the collar. John thinks he looks positively ravishing with his mouth pink and slightly open, eyes dark and intent.

 

Then, there is a sound behind him and both of them turn to see Sherlock standing next to the chair, watching them, the violin now safely back in its case on the desk.

 

Sherlock, John thinks, looks strangely hesitant, his eyes flickering back and forth between John and Greg, as if unsure of his welcome. The thought is strange and a little painful because John is so happy right now he cannot stand the thought of one of them feeling left out at all.

 

Luckily, Greg seems to have come to the same conclusion and they both lean forward as if on cue, gripping Sherlock by lapels of his suit jacket, dragging him close. They stand like this for a moment, all three of them crowded together forming something between a circle and a triangle.

 

And then, Greg leans over, one hand firm on Sherlock's neck, the other on John's shoulder, and kisses Sherlock.

 

Just before their mouths meet, John can see Sherlock's eyes flutter closed, the expression of uncertainty on his face morphing into desire and yearning. It is a gentle kiss, John can tell, but not a chaste one by any stretch of the imagination. Within seconds, Greg has licked his way into Sherlock's mouth in the confident way that is his and John watches in surprise as the tension drains out of Sherlock's body, at the way he melts against Greg. It looks like it is only the fact that he has both hands fisted in Greg's shirt now which is keeping him upright.

 

John has never seen Sherlock go so pliant and soft, so _passive_. Sherlock is letting Greg take the lead entirely and Greg has brought both hands up, tangling his fingers in Sherlock's hair as he gently positions him so that they can deepen the kiss.

 

There is a causal eroticism to the gesture and John can feel his breathing speed up as he hears Sherlock moan in response, a trickle of sweat running down his neck. Sherlock needy and submissive is a beautiful sight and John can feel his dick growing heavy and warm between his legs. At the same time, he feels a little shut out by all this intensity happening right in front of him. It is only natural, he assumes. This thing between Sherlock and Greg has been building for a long, long time and it is unrealistic to expect a single shag to be enough for them to get it out of their systems.

 

That is as far as he gets in his reflections, because suddenly, Sherlock is pulling away from Greg and then both of them turn, directing their attention to him. John swallows at the sudden intensity of having two pairs of eyes fixed on him with so much concentration.

 

He licks his lips, carefully stepping closer, and then they are both reaching for him and John finds himself pressed in close between them at a bit of an awkward angle. He doesn't mind at all, though, because all at once there are two sets of lips on his face, one of them kissing him, the other gently mouthing along his temple and left ear. It is Sherlock who is kissing him, John knows, but the thought that both of them would taste rather similar right now, having just snogged each other like that, makes him groan happily.

 

He lets himself be manoeuvred around a little until he is resting against Sherlock's chest, the tickle of his hair unmistakable against John's neck and opens his eyes just in time to see Greg lean forward and then there is a tongue in his mouth and they are licking and biting at each other shamelessly. Greg breaks the kiss so that they can both get their breath back and John sees him look up at Sherlock. He has no idea what exactly Greg sees, as his own head is still resting against Sherlock's shoulder, effectively blocking him from Sherlock's face.

 

What he _can_ see, is Greg lifting one eyebrow challengingly as he asks: “You like what you see, then?”

 

“Oh, yes.” John can feel Sherlock's answer rumble in his chest, his voice deep and rough with arousal. “You two are...quite the sight.”

 

He thinks he catches a glimpse of satisfaction on Greg's face, before he leans over and kisses Sherlock on the mouth, once, their lips smacking together forcefully.

 

“So,” John ventures, “are we going to stand here and make out all night or did you have anything specific planned? Because I can think of a couple of things I might want to do.” He can usually do deadpan pretty well, but right now the way he is panting is probably marring the effect slightly. Still, Greg snorts in the way he always does when John has managed to amuse him despite himself.

 

He steps back and turns around, walking towards Sherlock's bedroom as he calls over his shoulder “Come on, then, if you're that impatient!” John grins and turns around. Sherlock is looking a little wild, his hair on end and his lips bitten and red from all the kissing. It is a good look on him and John simply has to lean forward for a quick kiss of his own, their lips soft and gentle against each other.

 

Then Sherlock begins to walk him backwards towards his bedroom and John quickly turns around in self-defence. They did this once already, a couple of weeks ago and he has absolutely no intention of missing what is promising to be a spectacular threesome because he stumbles over one of Sherlock's books and hits his head (again).

 

Fitting three grown men into a bed meant for one and a half turns out to be a little more difficult, though. The first time they try, John ends up in the middle, Sherlock and Greg crowding him from either side, all three of them finally naked.

 

Things are going swimmingly for a bit: Greg is biting John's nipples gently in a way that makes him moan and thrust up into the hand on his dick – whose, he has no idea – and Sherlock is kissing him again, a little clumsily because of the weird angle. But it's energetic and wet in the way John loves.

 

Yes, it is all going marvelously until Sherlock reaches out and tries to run his fingers through Greg's hair at the same time as Greg lifts his head, with the result that Sherlock almost pokes him in the eye. Greg rears back and loses his balance, John lunges across the bed to try and get a grip on him, forcefully hitting Sherlock in the shin with the heel of his foot. Before he knows it, both Sherlock and Greg hit the floor, hard.

 

There is a moment of shocked silence and then John flops down on his stomach, buries his face in the duvet and starts laughing so hard he almost chokes.

 

He tries to stop himself, he really does, but the way Greg had flailed in a futile effort to retain his balance and the high, offended squawk Sherlock made when he jolted off the bed have him in hysterics. And OK, maybe there is an element of relief there, too, because he has been so worried for so very long. Being brought down by a simple lack of space, in contrast, actually feels bloody fantastic after all the belly-aching they have been doing.

 

At first he is alone in his merriment, and feeling a little guilty. Really, he should be making sure neither of them managed to concuss themselves. Then, he can hear Greg laughing himself silly, sounding giddy from where he is lying on the floor, happiness and the release of tension making his voice free and easy. Pretty soon Sherlock joins in, first chuckling, then giggling and finally breaking down into a full-blown belly laugh John has never really heard before. The sound makes something wild and joyous bubble up in his chest and he has to flop over onto his back to draw in enough air between bouts of laughing, tears streaming down his face.

 

Finally, he wipes his eyes and hangs his head over the bed to where Greg is sprawled out on the rug, looking at him fondly and with amusement making his eyes bright and young. “So,” John says conversationally, “I think somebody is getting a new bed for Christmas.”

 

There is an indignant snort from the other side of the bed and a moment later Sherlock flops down next to John and tries to glare at him. The effect is rather ruined by the way his lips are still twitching with laughter as he says: “It is hardly my bed that is at fault. You two are evidently too old to have a proper sense of balance and –” that's as far as Sherlock gets before John tackles him and leans over him, pressing Sherlock's arms to the mattress.

 

The laughing fit has invigorated him and he relishes the feeling of Sherlock straining under him, even if he is little more than half-hearted in his attempts to get free.

 

“Oh, so we're old, are we?” he asks faux-dangerously. He leans down and kisses Sherlock, teasingly at first, catching a lip between his own, only to withdraw, mouthing along his jaw line but evading Sherlock's attempts at deepening the kiss.

 

Then the mattress wobbles and a moment later strong hands pull him upright. He suddenly finds himself pressed back against Greg's chest as he wraps his arms around John and begins to nuzzle his neck. John groans and arches back, the warm press of Greg's belly and chest behind him, skin on skin, blissful. Greg's breath, the sharp bite of his teeth and gentle suction of his lips are sending shivers across John's body, drawing his nipples tight in pleasure.

 

Greg has both arms wrapped around his torso, holding him upright, so John knows that the fingers stroking the crease of his groin must belong to Sherlock. Soon, however, he loses any clear sense of who is touching him where and simply lets himself drift in the drag of palms across his skin, of fingers teasing and tracing up his belly and down between his legs, of a hot prick pushing insistently against his arse.

 

Their breathing is speeding up and he is vaguely aware that they have found a kind of rhythm, with Greg pushing against his tailbone, the wet drag of his cockhead obscene on John's skin, and Sherlock thrusting up into his own fist below them.

 

For a moment it is perfect, their breathing and movement aligned and in sync but then Sherlock huffs in frustration and reaches up to grip John's dick, saying insistently: “Come. Down. Here,” as he tugs gently but emphaticallys.

 

John leans forward because he is rather attached to his penis, thank you, but also because the way Sherlock is growling at him, imperiously and demanding, makes something in him want to bend.

 

He is hovering over Sherlock now, supporting his weight on his forearms as Sherlock grips them both in one hand and pushes up against John, hissing: “Yes, like that, exactly,” and John groans.

 

For a moment he feels bad about abandoning Greg like this, but then there is a gentle hand on his neck pressing him down and a little closer to Sherlock's face as Greg murmurs into his ear. “Stay right here, I'm just getting something to fuck you with.”

 

John sucks in a quick breath, squeezing his eyes shut as he tries to regain some control over his suddenly racing heart. He doesn't usually bottom, partly because he just really enjoys fucking and partly because it feels too selfish, too good to let himself be taken like that. Right now, however, he is too turned on to feel anything but _want_ at the idea.

 

He and Sherlock are moving against each other lazily now, their dicks dragging against each other in Sherlock's fist. When he looks down, he can tell Sherlock is smirking at him.

 

“What?” he asks, but the annoyance he tries to put in his voice doesn't quite make it.

 

“I know what you're thinking,” Sherlock pants, narrowing his eyes, as he reaches up to scratch a thumbnail over one of John's nipples, making him hiss and arch at the mix of pleasure and pain. “Only a couple of hours ago I was the one he was fucking and – oh! – it felt bloody amazing.”

 

John grins as he manages to make Sherlock stumble over his words with a well-timed circular motion of his hips. Then the rest of what Sherlock has just said arrives in John's brain and paints a vivid picture of Sherlock being fucked by Greg, wanton and desperate, the way he only gets when he is buggered hard and fast after a lot of foreplay. John moans and brings his mouth down against Sherlock's, biting the curve of his sensitive mouth.

 

He is just about to ask how exactly it had happened, if Greg had been able to find that perfect angle that makes Sherlock claw at John's back and hiss in pleasure when _he_ manages to hit it just right –

 

But then the mattress bounces and Greg is back on the bed with them, already wearing a condom and with a tube of lubricant in his hand.

 

John has turned his head and sees Greg stopping for a moment, looking at the two of them with a lot of tenderness that John simply can't deal with right now but stores away for later contemplation.

 

Then, thankfully, Sherlock, who still has both of them in his right hand, plays his fingers along the base of John's cock, making him writhe and shudder, and asks with annoyance: “Well, what are you waiting for? I want to see you fuck him, get on with it!”

 

Greg rolls his eyes and grumbles: “Oi, calm down you impatient twit!”

 

But he gets busy with John's backside and soon John finds himself flat on Sherlock's chest, moaning and gasping as Greg slowly teases him open.

 

His erection is pressed tight between them and John can't stop himself from making short, rhythmic thrusts against the wonderfully flat surface of Sherlock's belly as Sherlock kisses him lazily while Greg takes his sweet time with his fingers in John's arse.

 

He feels like he is going to melt between the insistent and delicious pressure of Greg's fingers and the softness of Sherlock's mouth, desperately grateful for the anchoring feeling of Sherlock's arms around him, holding him close.

 

“You look so good, John, so good, come on, relax, I want to see him take you, come on,” Sherlock is whispering into his ear, his voice rough and a little frantic, and John shudders.

 

It is almost too much, all of this touching and attention, Sherlock's breath against the shell of his ear, his rapid heartbeat against John's own chest, Greg's hand on the cheek of his arse as he gently pushes in with three fingers now. John feels full and a little overwhelmed, pleasure shooting through him whenever Greg grazes his prostate with his fingertips.

 

“Please,” he hears somebody beg, “please, I, God, you have to – ” he realises it is himself only when Greg pulls out with all three fingers at once and moves into position above him.

 

“Sh,” Greg murmurs, as he strokes a hand along John's side, “it's alright, I'm almost done.”

 

And then Greg lines himself up and thrusts into John in one smooth stroke, until he is flush against John's back. John cries out, in shock and a little bit of discomfort but then he remembers to bear down onto Greg and that – oh yes. That feels really, amazingly good.

 

Sherlock's arms are still around him and John's hands are tight on Sherlock's shoulders as he tries to hold still while Greg slowly withdraws and then pushes in again, breathing heavily.

 

“Is this angle working for you?” He pants out against John's neck and all John can do is nod emphatically because, hell, is it ever. He thinks vaguely that Greg must be kneeling on a pillow or something to make this work but soon enough careful considerations of angles and relative height disappear as he gives himself over to the rhythm of being fucked. Every thrust of Greg's hips is pushing him down and forward against Sherlock in a way that feels utterly amazing and Sherlock below him is panting and moaning. He is rocking his hips in counterpoint to Greg in what little room for movement he has, his cock hot and leaking against John's stomach. The rhythm of his movements is speeding up continuously until it becomes almost frantic and pretty soon there is a hoarse shout as Sherlock jerks against John, coming all over both of them.

 

John groans and then simply relaxes as completely as he can, revelling in the sensation of being taken apart without moving a single muscle himself as the slickness of Sherlock's come eases the glide of his prick between them into something smooth and sweet. The sensations of being sandwiched between Sherlock and Greg in this way, the rare feeling of being penetrated, all have him shuddering and wanting to rock back onto Greg's dick because he can feel his orgasm just around the corner, can feel it starting to creep up from the clenched muscles of his thighs, his body charging up like a battery.

 

But he can't move, is utterly immobile and helpless between them and that feels good in a way he didn't anticipate. It intensifies every sensation, sending waves of shuddering pleasure over his whole body whenever he tries to move but can't. He is close, so very close, but he can do nothing about it, can only lie here and let Greg and Sherlock pull the orgasm out of him inch by glorious inch. He feels like he is coming apart at the seams.

 

Finally, he shouts and twitches against Sherlock's chest helplessly as his body contracts around that hard length inside him, once, twice, three times, his orgasm drawn out and intense in the way it only is when he has something pressed up against his prostate just right.

 

As the last of the aftershocks make their way through his system, Greg's whole body tenses behind him, his hips stuttering forward twice more in quick succession, as he comes as well.

 

As soon as the aftershocks lessen enough for him to relax, Greg withdraws carefully and John rolls off Sherlock, coming to lie on his side. There is some rustling as Greg gets rid of the condom and then all three of them simply lie there for a moment, panting at the ceiling.

 

“Jesus Christ,” John finally croaks out, an enormous grin splitting his face, “I think you _broke_ me.”

 

Greg, on his left side, groans and swats him on the leg playfully. “Stop whining, I think I need a _hip replacement_ after this. Bloody hell!”

 

Sherlock, on John's other side, sniggers at that and soon enough they're all giggling like schoolboys again.

 

“Seriously,” Greg wheezes, “I might have to hit the gym again to keep up with you two. Oh God, I am filing a sodding request to bottom for the foreseeable future!”

 

“Hm,” Sherlock says thoughtfully, his cheek pressed against John's shoulder, “next time, we could hold you down and I could suck you off while John fucks you.”

 

“Oh sweet Mother of God,” Greg says after a beat of silence, and then: “Yes, yes that would work.”

 

The mental image makes John's dick twitch in a valiant but futile effort at recovery. “Holy shit,” he says reverently. Sherlock is nothing if not inventive in bed and the thought of what he might come up with if left to his own devices and provided with two willing bodies is kind of terrifying John a little.

 

Of course, at that precise moment, Sherlock sits up and then gets off the bed with movements as energetic as if he hadn't just had two bouts of spectacular sex within the space of 4 hours. At least John assumes they were both pretty spectacular. John thinks they might be doomed.

 

“Where're you going?” Greg asks sleepily, the jostling of the mattress tipping his limp and unresisting body against John's side in a comfortable sprawl.

 

“Shower,” Sherlock says, wrinkling his nose as he gestures at the semen smeared down his front with a facial expression that is all deeply offended cat, which sets John off on another giggle fit as Greg huffs against his shoulder in amusement.

 

For a moment, Sherlock tries to glare at them in annoyance, but his face only gets half-way there before it softens into a smile again as he turns around and pads through the open door.

 

John elbows Greg. “D'you want to follow him?”

 

Greg yawns. “I don't think I _could_ , honestly,” he says, “so long as you're not planning on carrying me...”

 

“Not bloody likely.” John snorts and fishes around a little until he unearths the ratty old t-shirt Sherlock likes to sleep in. He gives himself a quick wipe-down and then tosses it into a corner of the compulsively tidy room before lying back down again.

 

They spend some time rearranging themselves and finally come to lie on their sides, one of Greg's long legs tucked between both of John's and his arm across John's waist. The kiss sleepily for a bit, just gentle, lazy presses of their lips against each other and then Greg sighs a little into John's mouth and nestles his face into the crook of John's neck. John lets his hand wander up and down Greg's spine for a bit, drowsy and content.

 

“You're really amazing, you know that?” He whispers against Greg's ear. There is a lightness in his bones, making his heart wide with happiness. He can feel Greg smile against his neck, his arm tightening around John as Greg presses a tiny kiss against the tender skin under his chin.

 

“I love you, too, you great big idiot,” he mumbles into John's shoulder, and John snorts softly in amusement and affection. Then he remembers what he had been meaning to find out before the evening devolved so rapidly and pleasantly into an all-out orgy and he nudges Greg gently as he asks: “So, how was it? Sherlock and you?”

 

Greg groans and burrows more deeply into John's shoulder. “Bloody intense is what it was,” he grumbles, “the stupid git has a shit memory.” The words sound harsh but John can't hear anything but fondness in Greg's voice. Greg sighs. “I'll tell you tomorrow, yeah? S'all good now, just sleep.”

 

John knows he wouldn't get another word out of Greg now if his life depended on it, but the answer satisfies him for the moment and he lets himself drift along gently, his breathing slowing to match Greg's, the sounds of Sherlock in the bath comforting and familiar. Just before he drops off entirely, he hears Sherlock come back. There is an annoyed huff as Sherlock no doubt spots his messy shirt on the floor but then the duvet is pulled up over Greg and him. Sherlock presses a small, quick kiss to John's forehead and John is pretty sure that Greg gets a similar treatment, but by that time his eyes have already stopped cooperating and moments later he is fast asleep.

 

 

 

Sherlock sits down in his armchair cross-legged, his body fresh and invigorated from both the sex and the shower, and reaches for his laptop but he doesn't open it right away. Instead, he takes a deep breath and simply sits there, his hand flat on the lid of his computer, trying to figure out what it is he is feeling. The knowledge of Greg and John intertwined and asleep in his bed is whispering along his spine like a double pulse, grounding his body and calming his mind. He has read a number of books on the concept of mindfulness, and he thinks that this is the closest he has ever come to understanding the state of tranquillity that is so often described as the goal of meditation. Emptiness of thought has always seemed like an unconscionable waste, but that was before he realised that what the words are trying to capture is the feeling of soaring on a wave of bliss so profound as to make thoughts seem superfluous for precious, delirious seconds. _This _, he thinks,_ must be love_ _ _.__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WORKS INSPIRED BY THIS ONE:
> 
> 1)  
> I think I traumatised some of my fellow Lestrade fans a little with some of my cliff-hangers, but I am not sorry because it resulted in the lovely mazaher writing an adorable ficlet about John and Sherlock cuddling a world weary Lestrade:
> 
> **[One Night in London](http://mazaher.livejournal.com/57315.html) **   
> _After more than half a lifetime of effort, even ordinary days can be hard.  
>  Lestrade needs some help, and help is there for him.  
> No asking even required._
> 
>  
> 
> 2)  
> Because she is awesome and a great friend, lostgirlslair made [a wonderful wallpaper](http://lostgirlslair.livejournal.com/449328.html) based on this story, as well as a number of [beautiful icons](http://frytha.tumblr.com/post/28410047228/rites-of-passage-icons)


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